


A Vein of Friendship

by write_in_ice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Forced Ejaculation, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Mystery, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Trust, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 23
Words: 23,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1311103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_in_ice/pseuds/write_in_ice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Sherlock will do anything to block out the memories - hide out on the streets, self harm, drugs - but they still come bubbling to the surface. One night, a police officer comes across him (Lestrade) and offers to take him home. Unsure of the officers motives, Sherlock agrees. Has he made a mistake or is Lestrade finally someone who he can truly trust? </p><p>Story is set when Sherlock is 17 and after a traumatic experience involving a villain from canon and contains graphic elements and difficult subject matter.</p><p>[Fill for the Prompt: The general consensus in the fandom is that Lestrade met Sherlock when he was a drug addict, then took him home and helped him get clean. Yes? Yes.</p><p>But see, Sherlock knows that there’s only one reason an older man would take Sherlock to his house and show him this sort of kindness. Lestrade only wants him around for the same reasons as every other older man who ever ‘wanted him around’. He realizes he’s in no position to turn Lestrade down -- he needs the security, and has nowhere else to go at the moment -- so Sherlock preps himself and slips into Lestrade’s bed.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock leaned back against the concrete wall and pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders. The alley always had a chill to it at night. Something about the angle of the street and the height of the buildings trapped the cold air. Few ever stayed long, only old junkies and lost tourists, and they were either too high or too scared to say much. On a good day, it was the quietest place in London—that was exactly what Sherlock was looking for.

He opened and closed his fist a few times while he stared down at his wrist. It had been simple enough to nick a few syringes without anyone noticing. There was a small indent where the needle had struck his vein. He’d have to try another spot soon, but that was a thought for later. Now, all he wanted was the effect. All he wanted was the quiet.

His head pounded as he shoved the remnants back into his duffle bag and waited. It rarely took this long and his mind continued to turn. He ran his tongue across the back of his teeth as his brother’s voice seeped in.

_“A disappointment, little brother. What would mummy say?”_

Sherlock scratched his neck as Mycroft’s stern face swam behind his eyes.

_“You must not let on, Sherlock. Burry it.”_

Images melded together as the young man took a breath, and soon a second voice overpowered the first. A sharp, accented laugh washed over his brother’s taunting and Sherlock could feel himself begin to panic.  He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his head to his knees.

“What would mummy say?” He whispered into the darkness.

_“Yes, what would mummy say?”_

Sherlock began to rock as the words licked at his memories.

_“Think of this as a business transaction. Nothing in this world is free.”_

_Dead eyes, watched through wire frames, as he struggled. The bindings cut at his wrists. His stomach lurched as the man’s hot hands moved over his bare back, and down, down, down, to the waist of his jeans. His breath was sour as he ran his tongue across Sherlock’s cheek and bit down on his ear._

Tears welled in Sherlock’s eyes as the memories surged.

_The scraping of his nails on his skin. The sound of a zip. The weight of the man’s body._

Sherlock gasped as his body began to tremble. They were coming too fast now—image after image, sound after sound—each one finding a new horror. A new disappointment. His chest pounded so fast he felt like it would burst.

_The sound of footsteps. The tightening of rope. The slamming of a car door._

And then it hit.

Tension flowed from his body and soon the voices faded. The images became fuzzy and his breathing slowed. Everything around him seemed to disappear and the quiet overtook him. He could only hear the beating of his heart. It was the closest to silence his mind ever came. A smile crept onto his face as he relaxed for the first time in days. His body sagged against the pavement, his head resting beside his bag and a discarded aluminium can. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed. When he looked up, a man stood above him. His mind told him to run but his body didn’t answer.

 

 

“Hey!” Lestrade called out as he made his way into the alley.

This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend his night. In fact, this was close to the last place he’s though he’d be. It’d been years since he’d been down here on his own time—back when he was just a stupid kid. Now he was looking at one.

“Christ,” He mumbled, “Don’t let’em be dead.”

He’d seen the kid nearly an hour ago on the street. Eccentric maybe. A little skittish, but he didn’t think much of it. Stupid kids did stupid things. Besides, this wasn’t his division.  If he looked into every teenager, who acted suspiciously, the jails would be full and he’d have a mountain of paperwork. When the skinny little curly-haired idiot slumped onto the ground, all Greg’s hopes of staying out of it came crashing down.

“Kid!” He tried again, kneeling. He couldn’t have been more than 17. His face was pale and his eyes were red. The boy blinked.

_Not dead at least. That was something._

Still, the kid didn’t seem to see him and that was worrisome. Greg touched his wrist as his eyes close.

“Oh, no. You gotta stay awake.”

“...I am awake...”

“Good. Keep it that way.” Talking was a good sign too, and his temperature wasn’t alarming either. “Can you tell me your name?”

“I could...” The young man smirked. _Smug bastard._

Lestrade suppressed the urge to kick him in the teeth and continued. “It’s startin’ to get cold. You’ll want to find a warmer place.”

“Why? You know one?”

Greg looked to the sky as the first droplets of rain began to fall. He rolled his eyes. He already regretted what he was about to do.

“Don’t know why in the world I’m doing this,” he thought to himself. “Alright, come on.”

He extended his hand and the boy shifted. His eyes looked sceptical.

“It’s this or freezin’. Your choice. “

Even in his clouded state, Greg could see the kid’s mind working. Finally, he took his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

The boy stumbled as Greg unlocked his flat.

“Careful kid. We’re almost there.” He pushed open the door and tossed his keys to the counter. “Home sweet home. Not much but—” As Greg turned around, he could see the boy sway. “Oh no you don’t,” he muttered, catching the kid’s sleeve before he tumbled backwards. His eyes were unfocused, his pupils like pin pricks. Lestrade draped the kid’s arm around his shoulder to steady him and guided him forward.  They made their way to living room, and Greg helped the boy onto the sofa.

“That’s better.”

Sherlock nodded as he leaned his head against the pillow. The room was a mess. Papers were scattered across the table and a small stack of plates had accumulated in the corner. The man crossed his arms and watched him for a moment before leaving the room. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the last moments of the high wash over him.

“Here, you might need this,” The man said, setting down a bucket beside the sofa. “Toilet’s on the right, but just in case.”

Sherlock only nodded. It was ridiculous. His body felt heavy as he curled deeper into the cushions.

“Gonna have to take those off, kid.”

“mmhmm...” he mumbled, as an alarm went off deep in the back of his mind. He could feel the man come closer. He knelt as Sherlock’s feet. Fingers brushed across the cuff of his jeans. _...That’s how it starts..._ Then he felt the pull.

 _No,_ he thought, _I should be saying no._

He heard one thump and then another and the man touched his feet.

_...no..._

“For your own good,” he said, sliding his hands under Sherlock’s legs and adjusting his position.

_...no..._

He opened his eyes as the stranger gripped his shoulder.  _Maybe this time would be gentle. Maybe this time would erase the last._

“I gotta get you onto your side, kid. That’s it.”

“What...what are you doing to do to me?” Sherlock never heard the answer.

 

Lestrade locked the door and tossed the shoes that he had pulled from the kid’s feet beside the door. As they hit the ground, a small bag shook loose. Frowning, Greg picked it up. Heroin. He should have known.   
  
He looked back at the boy as he ran a hand through his hair. The kid was too young for this, and yet he'd seen the signs before. He was skinny, his hair was unwashed and he'd wrapped a blanket tightly around his shoulders.The way he reacted to touch was concerning and the words he spoke were downright scary. What could have gotten a kid like this so messed up? Greg kicked off his own shoes and plunked himself down in his armchair. It was going to be a long night.

 *****

 “Where is it?”

Lestade blinked, his eyes still heavy from lack of sleep. Apparently, he _had_ nodded off at some point.  He found himself staring into the angry eyes of the little runaway. Being a runaway was the only thing that made any sense. Lestrade rubbed his temples. Maybe he should have hid the knives.

“Look who’s up. Not surprising. You had a hell of a night. Did a number on my toilet too.” Lestrade leaned forward, but the boy held his ground. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. Lestrade could see his veins ripple as he yelled again.

“What did you do with it?!”

The boy’s arms were shaking.

“I threw it away.” Lestrade could see the boy’s face fall.

“Threw it away?”

“Of course I did. You couldn’t expect me to keep it here.”

The boy’s fingers dug at the fabric. “You don’t understand. I need it. I—” Lestrade had seen his share of fights, and knew exactly what was coming when the boy’s expression changed. His eyes narrowed and his body tensed.  Like clockwork, the boy threw a punch. Of course, Lestrade was ready. Within moments had the boy pinned to the floor. He used his knees to hold his legs down. His hands held down the boy’s arms. Still, the kid struggled—kicking, clawing—until his face was flushed.

“You can get through this. I flushed it. It ain’t coming back.”

“Flushed it?” The boy stopped. “Oh. You meant the drugs.”

Greg shook his head. “What did you bloody mean?”

“My bag. I need...” A look of panic tinged with green washed over his face. Lestrade immediately let him go and watched him scramble to the bucket. As he retched, Lestrade pulled his dark hair away from his face.

“Easy, kid.”

Sherlock shivered as the man began to rub his back. The touch pricked the hairs on his neck. He hated the feeling but as his stomach tossed and turned, he didn’t have the energy to fight. At least he wasn’t on top of him anymore. At least he’d let him up this time.

_This time. Nothing in this world is free._


	3. Chapter 3

His stomach heaved until there was nothing left but an empty ache. He breathed in and out slowly and waited, hoping it had passed. A moment later, the man handed him a wet cloth.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nodded, resting against the sofa.

“You know what’s happening to you, don’t you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“So you’ve been through withdrawal. I was hoping this was a one-time thing.”

Sherlock put his hands behind his head and looked to the ceiling. It wasn’t. The first time had been the worst. _All those people_. Mummy had thought a rehab program was the perfect solution. That’s what people did. They sent away all of their broken things to get fixed. It barely lasted a month.

Before the second time, he’d  become more secretive, hiding out longer, staying in the city. Mycroft was the one who found him and took him in, though Sherlock never really understood why. The whole endevour had been entirely humiliating—a continuous reminder that he was the idiot brother. He was certain Mycroft enjoyed every moment of it. Sherlock grimaced as he pushed the bucket away.

“Where’s my bag?”

“Probably still in the car.”

“Get it.”

“You’re an odd one, aren’t you? Barking orders at someone with no reason to help you. After trying to start a fight no less.”

Sherlock kept his eyes distant until he heard an exasperated sigh and the slamming of a door. His bag would help, but he could feel the signs of withdrawal. He needed something now. Anything. A distraction.

His eyes darted around the room. Think. Think. Think.

Of course.

Who was this man? Sherlock realized he didn’t know a thing about him. If his state had been different, he would have readily surmised the man’s history. Of course, if his state had been different the chance of him being here now would have been slim indeed.

“Let’s play deductions,” He whispered to an empty room. Soon he was grinning.

Loves his mother

Football fan

Vacation

Police Officer

It was all so obvious.

Ex-girlfriend

Broken

Drinking

Downtown

Back Alley

Doesn’t like his car

Sherlock’s heart began to pound.

Strong hands

Strategic

Rough

His head began to race.

Looking for something

Found me

A boy. A young boy.

Brings him home. Undresses him.

“No reason to help you”

_“There’s always a reason, Sherlock.” His brother’s voice assured him_

_“You know exactly what that is.” The other voice mocked._

Power

Pain

Sex

 **Sex.** **Sex.** **Sex.**

Lestrade

“No.” Sherlock shouted as he stood up.

_Yes..._

“Did you say something?” Lestrade asked as he pulled the door closed. Sherlock could feel the tears in his eyes and wiped them away before the man entered the room. “Found the duffle.” He paused, “You should probably sit down. You’re not looking too good”

Sherlock swallowed. “Your name is Lestrade. You’ve recently broken up with your girlfriend, have an unhealthy obsession with your local football club,  a drinking habit, and have worked as a police officer for the past three to five years.”

Lestrade dropped the bag to the ground, eyeing him. “Alright, I’ll bite. How’d you know that?”

Sherlock took a breath. “Obvious really. The shirts in your laundry basket, though sitting in your living room, are clean and pressed. Not a common practice for a single man living alone. Not unheard of but more common if it is critical to his work. From your quick take down of me early, we can assume you are in good physical shape and by the way your hand hangs at your side, it is clear you know how to use a gun."

“How?”

“Your fingers move slightly towards your belt at every sound of disturbance. Muscle memory of sorts. The need of quick reaction time. Possibly military-more likely SCO19. Wasn't your speed though. Your age, the size, location, and condition of this flat, and the half-empty bottle of whiskey on your counter—might as well have a neon sign that says police officer. The bank balance on your table reads G. Lestrade. There were two large deposits this month, undoubtedly your pay, but they were for drastically different amounts. Increase plus bonus equals a promotion, which usually occurs after three to five years. From your treatment of me last night, you have an in depth knowledge of addict behavior and drug identification so, Officer G. Lestrade, of narcotics."

“Not bad.”

“Oh, I’ve hardly scratched the surface.  I know exactly why you were in that alley last night."

“Do you now?”

“There are only three reasons to go to that part of the city at that time of night. The first—drugs. Not for a case, obviously. You wouldn’t have bothered with me if there were actually criminals to catch. So, off duty. You’ve been recently promoted, and display your achievements on your walls. I doubt you’d jeopardize that with drug use.  The second—Sex. Considering the state of your bedroom, the framed picture of you and a woman, the lipstick stained tissues in the trash beside the condom wrappers..."

“Wait a minute. When were you in my bedroom?”

“I was looking for the bag while you were asleep.”

“Oh for the love of—”

“As I was saying: the condom wrappers,  the diamond earrings on the nightstand, all indicates that a woman frequents your bed. A wife? Hardly. You want it to be more but she isn’t satisfied, so girlfriend. Not satisfied? Obviously. When you brought me here last night, there were pillows and blankets already folded on the sofa. You might have been expecting houseguests, but the crick in your neck tells me it is more likely you’ve been the one sleeping there. There’s a gold bracelet, from a brand matching your bank statement, lying on the floor of your toilet, adjacent to a small nick on the wall. A gift. An unwanted gift from a man she has decided to leave. Clearly she missed. Not a good aim, your ex-girlfriend. From the photograph it is clear the earrings hold some sentimental meaning. The way she tilts her head indicates an unconscious attempt to keep them safe. The fact that she left them means she left in a hurry. The fact that they’re still here means she wants little more to do with you. So, a breakup. Probably yesterday. Perfect excuse to run off to the district."

“You think I was looking for a hooker because my girlfriend broke up with me?”

“Of course not. Why? Last night, you had tension in your shoulders, one indication that you did not receive any physical release.  The outline of your wallet in your back pocket told me that it did not contain nearly enough to pay for a _lady of the night_ , but did contain enough to call a cab in case you drank too much and couldn’t drive home. So, the answer is three. Officer Lestrade was merely going to a seedy bar to get over a woman." Sherlock paused. “Or an exceptionally beautiful man.”

“She isn’t a man.”

“Like it matters.”

“Got to hand it to you kid. Not bad. But I’m not narcotics. Just have an uncle who’s made some bad choices.”

“There’s always something.”

 Lestrade scratched his head. ‘So that’s it. You’re some kind of idiot savant.”

“I assure you, I am no idiot.” He took another breath. “Now please, give me my bag.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> um..graphic. This is pretty horrible.

“I’ll give you your bloody bag. But first you got to do something for me.” The boy’s back straightened and his body tensed. Greg hated the sound of his breathing. It was rough and shallow—unnatural. The boy cleared his throat but his response still came out hoarse.

“What’s that?”

Lestrade crossed the length of the room until he stood toe-to-toe with the runaway.  The kid’s jaw was tight and his hands shook. There was defiance in his eyes—defiance and fear. Lestrade reached out his hand, but quickly pulled it back as the boy flinched.

“You should sit down, kid,” Greg repeated. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Greg sat down on the edge of the coffee table so he was facing the boy. A show of good faith. He dropped the bag between his feet and looked up. The boy nodded and perched himself on the sofa. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them.

“What was that? Those things you said. Am I some mark you’re trying to play?”  

The boy rolled his eyes. “Why would you be a mark? What could I possibly want from you?”

“Don’t know. Warm place to stay maybe? Place to throw up that has indoor plumping.” Greg glanced at the bucket. “Not that you’ve used it much.”

“Hardly. I will remind you that you were the one who found me. Why would I want to be involved with a wannabe detective with appalling taste in—”

“Alright.” Lestrade had heard just about enough about himself. “So, you looked through my house when I was gone?”

The boy licked his lips. “Deductions. Connections. I looked at the evidence. You’re a police officer. You should know what that means...If you’re any good.” The kid was fidgeting now—slowly rocking back and forth, picking at the seams of his jeans.

“Well, I can play this game too. What did you say, deduce? Bet I can tell a bit about you.”

“Oh, please _detective_ , do try.”

Lestrade had always loved to solve things. It was one of the reasons he wanted to be a police officer to begin with. There was something odd about this kid, but he’d seen many of the signs before. The arrogance, the anger—all of it was textbook. He brought his hands to his chin. The boy mimicked his action with a wry grin.  “The way I see it, you’re a spoiled little attention seeker, with no regard for your family or your life.”

“Why?”

“You’re a bloody heroin addict, for one. Tough drug, especially for a kid. What are you sixteen? Seventeen?”

The boy looked away.

“Expensive too, and I’m betting that your family’s fairly well off considering the brand of your jacket. Is this about your parents?”

“Nope.”

“I’ve seen a dozen kids like you trying to please mummy and daddy and wind up—”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Friends? Can’t image that’s been easy for you.”

“Your lack of accuracy is appalling. Do you really think you’re cut out for police work?”

“There’s something gnawing at you, kid. Something you’re hiding and it won’t get any better.” Greg eyed the bag.

“What are you doing?”

“I _deduce_ that there’s something in here you don’t want me to see.”

Sherlock could feel his heart racing.

_There’s something gnawing at you. Something you’re hiding. Something you don’t want anyone to see._

He bit his lip and breathed in through his nose, trying desperately to focus on the man in front of him.

 

Dark hair kept short. Practical. Efficient. Early greying at the temples. Stress.  
Shirt still rumpled from sleeping in a chair. Bags under the eyes. Stayed up watching.

_Watching_

He shook his head to keep out the images.

Wearing pyjamas. Three pairs of dirty sweats tossed in the corner. Trousers un-faded.  
Creased down the side. Kept folded. Never used. Normally sleeps naked.

_Naked._

The band was loose around his waist and slipped down as Lestrade shifted his hips.

  
_He was uncomfortable._   
_Uneasy._

  
The officer ran his hand across his own thigh as he leaned forward. “Let’s see what we got here.”

The sound of the duffle unzipping sent chills through Sherlock's body and he pulled his knees in tighter.

“No...”

“I’m doin’ this for your own good, kid.”

_“It’s for your own good. You don’t want anyone knowing what you’ve done now. Do you?”_

_  
The man stepped forward, a laugh threatening at the back of his throat. He slid his trousers over his hips and down his long, pale legs until they pooled on the floor._

Sherlock could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, soaking into his dark curls.

_“Of course you don’t.” His breath felt hot on his skin as the man leaned in. Every inch of him seemed wet. Like he was dripping. Sherlock could feel the rope tighten as he tried to pull away. His arms ached. Fear. Guilt. Revulsion. The man knelt. His long fingers toyed with the fly of Sherlock’s jeans._

_Zip. The sound seemed to echo._

Sherlock’s stomach rolled.

_A strong thumb touched the base of his prick and slid down the length._

_“There’s always...”_

_The air felt colder after his touch._

_“a way...”_

_His teeth toyed with his nipple as he began to stroke. Again and again._

_“to get what you want.”_

_The scream that rang in his ears was his own, as he remembered t_ _he wrenching, pulling, twisting...and the pulse of his cock as the man clamped down._ _The pain._

Sherlock gasped for air as it all flooded back. _He could smell it. He could taste it._

_He was panting hard._   
_Hating it._   
_Wanting it to be over._

_  
He felt himself jerk and the man's hands moved. He heard himself cry out as he ended it. But It wasn't over. Not even close._

_  
__The man's shadow moved over him._  
 _The strength of his hands forced his head forward._  
 _The thickness of it sliding into his mouth and over his tongue._

  
 _The thrust came hard, jamming it into his throat._  
He was choking.  
Gagging.  
The man rolled his hips, forcing a rhythm that was too fast, too soon.

 __  
His head rattled against the wall of the cage.  
Fingers pulled at his hair.  


_His eyes ached as he forced them closed, not wanting to see what was in front of him, feeling skin with ever thrust.  
_   
_He couldn’t breathe. He couldn't think. He couldn't scream._   
_Over and over._   
_Harder and harder._   
_Again and again._

Lestrade sifted through the bag. There was nothing there. A couple syringes, a mixing glass, lighter, matches—nothing unexpected. No drugs. No weapons. Only a picture of an old dog and a handful of books.

“I don’t get it kid. This is just a bunch of—”

"No..."

Greg looked up at the boy and tossed the bag aside. The kid was shaking, gasping for breath. Sweat poured down his face. 

“Kid. Kid can you hear me?” Lestrade called out, touching the boy’s shoulder.

 _The man gripped Sherlock’s shoulders for leverage...Everyone needs leverage...Deeper. Sherlock’s throat contracted as the man grunted.  
Once.  
Twice.  
His body twitched. His mind panicked.  
Again..._ _Again._

_“Now....”_

_  
He coughed and sputtered as the hot a sticky mess filled his mouth and dripped down his throat. He wanted to heave. He wanted it gone, but the man knelt down again, letting his flaccid prick rest lazily against Sherlock’s skin._

_“Swallow it.” The man’s eyes gleamed, but Sherlock shook his head. “Swallow it, now.”_

_That was the breaking point. Tears streamed down his face as he succumbed. he would never forget that taste._

_“That’s right.”  The man raised a sticky finger to his lips and licked the length of it. “It’s not so bad.” He adjusted his glasses and ran his tongue across Sherlock’s lips. He tasted himself._

Sherlock retched.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short update to prove I'm still writing this. :)

Greg kept the bucket steady as the boy continued to shudder.  There was something frightening about the way he shook and fear that glinted in his eyes as he curled forward—the coughing, wheezing, gagging. It wasn’t the glassy-eyed emptiness or the broken pain he’d seen in his uncle time and again. This was panic—this was a terrified kid just trying to hang on. Lestrade watched the clock as time ticked by, wondering if he had made the right choice. The hospital was close. The call would only take a moment. Still, Lestrade could not bring himself to dial.

“Easy now.” He reassured as the boy began to spit. Once, twice, and his breathing began to steady. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve as Lestrade set down the pail. “Thought you had it all up the first time. Guess we were wrong, eh?” Greg was hoping for a smile, but got nothing in return. The kid looked hollow as Greg eased him back down on the sofa. There was no complaint, no hesitation as he wrapped a blanket over his shoulders and propped a pillow under his head. Lestrade picked up the bucket.

“I’m going to rinse this, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.” Sherlock nodded weakly. He didn’t much care what Lestrade did. His stomach turned, his chest ached, and his throat burned. Tears streamed down his cheeks but he didn’t have the energy to wipe them away. What did it matter anyway? What was the point?  The tears would come back. So would the ache and the nausea. The thoughts would force their way through.

_“Bury it, Sherlock.”_

_Mycroft had stopped in front of a mirror and brushed aside his perfectly quaffed hair. He straightened his suit, hesitating over his stomach, and adjusted his tie. “You need to bury it.”_

_“Bury what?”_

_“This,” He said, absently motioning in Sherlock’s direction, while pulling on a pair of leather driving gloves. “You can’t continue to do this.”_

_“I’m sick.”_

_“You’re ridiculous. Tell me, do you plan on putting on trousers today?”_

_“What does it matter?”_

_Sherlock could see his brother’s brow furrow as he slipped a jacket over his shoulders. “Oh yes, poor Sherlock. No one knows as much woe as my little brother. Do alert the media.”_

_Sherlock slunk deeper into the cushion of a worn leather chair._

_“I trust you won’t destroy my flat while I’m gone. The medicine cabinet is locked of course. Can’t be too careful, living with an addict.”_

_“Do come back soon. I’d hate to think of the mess I’m liable to make.” Sherlock grinned but Mycroft slammed down his fist._

_“This is a bloody joke to you, isn’t it? This drug habit...you don’t give a damn about what you’re doing to—“_

_“Mummy?”_

_“Though it pains me to say,” he picked up his umbrella. “You’re smarter than this, Sherlock.”_

_“Like you said, I’m an addict.”_

_He swung the handle before tapping it against the ground “The physical symptoms fade. It’s the mental that will keep it at bay. Manage it. Emotion will swallow you.”_

_“Poetic, dear brother.”_

_“I’ll be home late.” Mycroft sighed. “Keep your mind busy. Find yourself a puzzle.”_

 

His leg twitched as he struggled to sit up. His body felt heavy. His mind felt clouded. That was something at least—something better than normal. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat staring, run those words over in his head. The bucket had returned. Lestrade had not.

He shifted his weight slowly as he reached for the bag and pulled it onto his lap. Lestrade’s rummaging had disrupted his organization. An annoyance. The books were scattered. His letters were strewn about. After a moment of debate he settled on a large tome. The pages were thin and the print was fine. Sherlock blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus. He pulled out a pen and kicked the bag to the end of the sofa. As he read the lines, his mind steadied. He could see the patterns and make the connections. He took a breath as he flipped the pages. His pencil scratched notations in the margins as he went.

_“Find a puzzle, Sherlock. Keep your mind busy.”_

He did. Words and theories filtered in as he made his way through the book—checking and rechecking, discarding trite speculation. Narrowing down the facts and eliminating the fiction. Time seemed to stop as Sherlock worked. He was close. He could feel it. There was one thing missing, one tiny piece of information that would put it all together. If he could find it, he could...

“Ahem.”

Sherlock tried to push away the noise as best he could, but it found its way in.

“Busy are we?”

_Wrong again? How telling, little brother._

“I can figure it out.” He ran his hands through his hair.

_Good to aspire. Pity you’ll never succeed._

“I can.”

_Now who’s dreaming?_

“Maybe it’s time for a break?”

“I’m perfectly capable...”

_You’re an incomparable disaster, little brother. And idiotic little-_

“I’m not a child anymore Mycroft!” Sherlock shoved the book to the ground, letting it thump at his feet. 

“Who the hell is Mycroft?”

Sherlock looked up startled. Lestrade stood holding a tray of soup with a quizzical look on his face. “Or should I ask what?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Mycroft is my brother.”

Lestrade chuckled as he set the try down on the table. “Jesus Christ, there are two of you? Hate to be at those family dinners.”  He motioned to a bowl. “Eat up.”

Sherlock slouched. “I’m not hungry.”

“Of course you’re not. But I have no intention of watching you starve yourself through this.” Lestrade took his own bowl, flicked on the television, and made himself comfortable. “So eat up.”

The kid made a face as he plucked a cracker off the plate.


	6. Chapter 6

_“Eat. Don’t want you to lose your strength, now. We have so much more to do.”_

_The soup smelled foul. Bits of grizzle bobbed up and down in the thin broth. Gobs of god-knows-what floated across the top. Sherlock tipped the bowl to his lips, dribbling the lukewarm liquid down his shirt._

_“Here, let me help with that.” The man in the glasses slipped a knife from his pocket and cut the rope binding from Sherlock’s wrists. “That’s better. Now. Drink it.”_

_Shelock gagged as the slimy dreck touched his tongue, but forced it down, knowing what his captor was capable of._

“More.”

_He sipped again. This time a letting a thin trickle of broth seep through his lips._

_“No.” The man shook his head and crossed the floor. He grabbed the bowl and tipped it upward, forcing the remaining morsels down Sherlock’s throat. The boy coughed and sputtered, grasping at the ground as he tried to swallow. “Good,” the man cackled as he tossed the bowl to the ground. “ ‘til tomorrow.”_

_The door clicked shut, but Sherlock’s mind was already turning. With his hands free, he quickly untied his feet. The floor was littered with debris and it was only a matter of time before he could find something to pick the lock. After nearly an hour he heard a click and slowly pushed the door open. The inner room was bigger, darker and almost empty. There were no windows. No signs of life. No indication of the outside world. There was a desk on one side and a bright red light flashed beside it. As Sherlock crept closer he realized it was a telephone. He pulled the cord down and tucked himself beneath the shabby desk. His shaking hand dialed the only person he was sure was in the city._

_“Mycroft Holmes. Who is speaking?”_

_“Mycroft, please. I need your help._

 

“So this Mycroft,” Greg tried again. “Where’s he at?”

The boy pushed the soup away. He’d barely touched it—barely even looked at it.  It was going to be harder than he thought to get this kid to eat. Broth usually went down pretty easy, but the boy didn’t seem convinced. Lestrade pushed the crackers closer as walked to the kitchen, but the runaway ignored him.

“In the city.” The boy muttered.

“Should I be giving him a call?” Lestrade returned with a glass of water.

There was a nervous tick in the kid’s hand as he answered. “My brother isn’t one for interruptions.”

 

_“Mycroft?”_

_“It’s late, Sherlock.”_

_“Mycroft please, you have to help me.”_

_“What is it now, brother mine? Daddy out too late again? Neighbour down the street secretly MI-5? Convinced the Vatican is out to get you?”_

_“He’s got me. I don’t know who he is but he’s taken me. Two, three blocks from—“_

_“This is childish, Sherlock._

_“It isn’t—”_

_“An over dramatic cry for attention.”_

_“I’m not—”_

_“Of course not, no. I’m certain that some criminal has locked you away, conveniently near a telephone. Does that sound reasonable?”_

_“No, but—”_

_“Of course not. You do remember the boy who cried wolf, don’t you Sherlock? A trite story, but with a point.  If you don’t end this, you are going to get yourself into trouble. I’m not mummy, dear brother. I don’t have time for your silly games.”_

_“Mycroft, please.”_

_“Goodnight, Sherlock. Do try to come up with something a bit more plausible next time.”_

 

_Sherlock’s heart skipped as the line went dead. He dropped the receiver and let it clink against the floor. He could barely breathe, his mind was blank, and his skin prickled as laughter echoed through the room. The man stepped from the darkness._

_“What? Does big brother not believe you? Funny thing, a reputation. A good one is difficult to gain and a bad one is difficult to lose.”_

_“You let me...”_

_“Of course. It’s the only way you’ll learn.”_

_“Learn what?”_

_“That I own you Sherlock Holmes.”_

 

“You owe me.”

“What?”

Greg dropped two pills on the table. “I said, you owe me more than that. Take those.”

“What are they?”

“Oh, so now you’re picky about what you put into your body? Street heroin, that's fine...” The boy flinched and Lestrade swallowed two pills himself. “Just aspirin. To take the edge off. I’ve got a headache. Can’t image what you’re feeling like.” The boy swallowed the pills with a gulp of water and picked up one of his books. “You’re going to have to tell me something, kid. Lestrade gritted his teeth and plucked the book from the runaway’s hands.

“That’s mine.”

“Well, now it’s mine.” He sat back down in his chair and thumbed through the pages. “Until you tell me something useful. All I know about you is that you’ve got family out there, and a brother named Mycroft, which sounds so made up I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Believe what you like.”

“You gotta give me something. A name. Anything. I can’t keep calling you kid.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what made him tell. Maybe it was the fatigue, or the delirium, or maybe he simply couldn’t stand the questions anymore. “It’s Sherlock. My name is Sherlock.”

“You’re kidding me. Sherlock and Mycroft?”

“Our parent believed in keeping family names.” He grimaced. “Now, my book. Please."   

Lestrade read the cover. “...Unsolved Mysteries of the Lower London Butcher...It’s just some old true crime novel. What's so special about it?”

“Nothing. I'm working.”

“These notes on the edge. You’re trying to come up with a theory?”

“I’m trying to solve it.”

“This case is over 50 years old. You’re not going to solve it from some trashy book.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed to his duffle bag. “The one with the blue binding? The housekeeper. They said it’s not the housekeeper but it’s clearly the housekeeper. No one ever throws out the shoe polish. The grey one was the neighbour’s sister with the help of one of the officers on duty and by the blurb on the back cover of the brown one, I’d say the author is purposefully skewing the facts to lead away from someone in his own family.”

_Trying to impress, are we Sherlock?_

Lestrade bit his lip. “...so you’re what? Trying to stave off withdrawal symptoms with mind games?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He picked at another cracker. “I’m trying to stave off the _cravings_ with mind games. I’m trying to ignore the withdrawal all together.”

“Huh.” Lestrade tossed the book back onto the sofa. “Well, _Sherlock_ , have at it. Whatever keeps you sane.” He turned the television channel and put his feet up. “But I’m not leaving this room again until you eat your soup.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's second night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. Thanks for all the support. Here's a really short update to prove I'm still here. Death in the family + weird work schedule + being sick = lack of fanfiction. The next bit is plotted out so I hope to get it up really soon. Thanks for sticking by me. :)

Greg stared at his alarm clock as the minutes ticked on. His head was sunk deep into his pillow, blurring his vision, but he could still make out the undeniable pattern of time.  His arm was stretched out awkwardly across the empty side of the bed. He wanted sleep. He needed sleep.  His eyes burned but his brain kept turning. He’d spent half the night tossing. If that were any indication, he’s likely spend the rest doing the same. It infuriated him. He was letting all of this get under his skin.

The kid, Sherlock, finally ate something. It had taken him hours. The soup must have been a lukewarm mess by the time he got hungry enough to eat it. He’d choked down a couple of crackers with a smug look on his face and shoved the empty bowl to the edge of the table, as if to say “happy?” The kid had an ego on him, that’s for sure.  Thought he was smarter than everyone else.

Greg rubbed his eyes and rolled onto his back.

Then again, maybe he was.

The connections he made weren’t amateur, that's for damn sure. Hell, Lestrade worked with plenty who could learn a thing or two from the annoying little addict. Greg had glanced at Sherlock’s “work” as he called it, after the boy had finally passed out. Brilliant really. He might be a runaway, an addict, and obnoxious, but Sherlock was brilliant. 

Sherlock. Greg chuckled to himself in the darkness. Who names their kid Sherlock? What kind of parent does that? And Mycroft? It was absurd. He groaned and flipped onto his stomach. This entire situation was ridiculous. He was supposed to be on vacation with his girlfriend and instead he was playing nurse to an unusual house-guest.

*****

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want speak. He most definitely didn’t want to wake up Lestrade. I had taken hours to trick the officer into thinking he was asleep, and Sherlock was more than happy to be left alone. He'd sat with him all afternoon-asking questions, wanting to known things. Sherlock had tried to ignore him and work on his puzzles, but as the hours went by it became harder and harder to concentrate. Sherlock knew what was coming and he had no intentions of letting Lestrade watch what was going to happen next. The tremors creeping up his legs were only the beginning. The ache had set in and he could feel the sweat dripping down his face. His stomach fought against the soup, but so far he’d been able to keep most of it down. Then would be the cramping and the chills...and the undeniable realization that he was worthless.

It was true by any measure, really. He was a disappointment. Even without Mycroft’s constant reminding, he was aware of that.  What kind of idiot allows himself to go through this? What kind of idiot allows himself to get caught?

 _You’re squandering your potential, Sherlock._ _Your weakness is showing._

Mummy had tried to tell him otherwise, but what did she know? She was hardly a good judge of productive choices. Daddy even less so. Those opinions had no value--obviously.

Sherlock sniffed and wiped his nose. He licked his lips and scratched his cheeks.  Out of nowhere, the weight of his blanket became unbearable—suffocating. It held him down and itched at his skin.

_You could end this now, before it gets worse. What does it matter? It’s inevitable. You’re not good enough to stop it, Sherlock. You won’t win. You’re a disaster. Broken. Unworthy._

_Mine._

He flung the blanket to the ground and sat up. His head spun and for a moment, he couldn’t find his balance. He cradled his head in his hands as he gulped for air.

_He’ll ruin you Sherlock._

_An interesting thing, a reputation._

_I wonder what the brave officer has in store..._

He took two deep breaths and forced himself to stand. His knees buckled as he made his way to the toilet, and grasped at the wall for balance. A pain twinged his back as he rubbed his eyes. He didn't care. It was the voices he hated--the faces that danced behind his eyes. The physical pain was one thing, the mental was worse. To dull that...to make himself forget about his failing...to forget about the touch...It was worth it.

He closed the door behind him and stared up at the medicine cabinet. It wasn’t locked. He knew it wouldn’t be.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock contemplates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one and I apologize. struggling along. So many things I want to write and s little time. Thanks for hanging in there.

The hinges of the medicine cabinet creaked as he unlatched the door.

_What are you waiting for? The outcome is inevitable._

He slid aside some toothpaste and a half used box of rubbers. A tub of Vaseline and a bottle of lube were stashed in the back, behind a tin of hairpins and a forgotten tube of lipstick. There had to be something.

Sherlock felt his chest tighten as he pulled out bottle after bottle—empty eyedroppers and hardened antiseptic creams. No prescription bottles. No painkillers. He tossed one by one to the ground—his impatience growing with every failure. His hands trembled. His eyes watered. Finally, he clutched at a jar of aspirin. A shake told him it was nearly full. He fumbled with the top. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

_Not good enough Sherlock. I’d thought you’d have learned from the last time. What kind of solution are you looking for, brother mine? Permanent, I think. Do try harder._

As he closed the cabinet, he remembered the way Mycroft had looked down at him. Dad had sat quietly in the corner as the machines beeped and buzzed. Mummy paced the floor until she began to unnerve the nurses. The face in the mirror looked the same as it had then—pale, thin, with red and tired eyes. He couldn’t stand his reflection. He couldn’t stand himself.

He pulled a jug from underneath the sink. His eyes blurred as he read the label but managed to balanced himself on the edge of the tub. The smell of bleach wafted through the small room as he unscrewed the lid. The mix would do it. He pictured the liquid trickling down his throat—burning, scarring and ultimately ending.  Sherlock dumped the pills into his hand. A few slipped through his fingers and danced across the floor, mingling with the bottles and getting lost in the strands of Lestrade’s unwashed bathmat. He swallowed one pill dry, then another, and another still.  The bleach bottle called to him. The lid bounced away as the smell filled his nostrils. He raised it to his lips, ignoring the weight of the jug as it strained his arm. The tears were back, but they would be gone soon. Everything would be gone...

_Everything will be right soon. You’ll be back on your feet with a smile on your face. This little hiccup will only be a memory. Nasty business, but nothing my boy can’t handle._

His mother’s sad smile crept into his mind.

_None of it will matter, Sherlock. You’ll see._

The jug tumbled from his hand, splashing his shirt and spilling across the floor.  He dropped the pills and hugged himself tight.  The bleach spread across the tiles and soaked the tablets, turning them slowly into mush as it bubbled. It would have done the same to him—ate at him until he was nothing too—but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even succeed in ending it.

He could hear lestrade awake in the next room. It wouldn’t be long until the officer would get suspicious. Wiping his eyes, Sherlock pulled the socks from his feet.

*****

What the hell was that kid doing? Lestrade threw back the blankets and sat up. His first instinct was preservation.  He didn’t want the boy to hurt himself, but there wasn’t anything stronger than an aspirin in the flat. His second instinct was to strangle the little sot for being so loud and go back to sleep. He assumed the latter wasn’t plausible. Instead, Greg slid from his sheet and walked towards the toilet. The door was closed and the light was on. He was about to knock, when he heard the spray of the shower.

“You okay, kid?” he called, leaning against the door.

“Fine. Just...looking for towels,” the boy called back.

 _Towels, right..._ Lestrade yawned. It was still too fucking early. But not too early for a cup of tea.

*****

Sherlock let the water shower down on him—through his hair, over his face, and down his back. He stood stone still as the steam filled his lungs and the heat pinked his skin. It was hot, maybe too hot, but soothing. He took a breath, to calm himself—in through his nose and out again.  The water speckled his thin body. Warm. Hot.

He breathed in again, but this time he caught the scent of bleach. It mixed with the musk of the damp mat, a familiar smell...Panic ran through him and he grabbed the ledge to steady himself. Instead of support, he found something sharp and he reeled back, sending himself sprawling, sliding down, down, to the floor of the tub. His stomach spasmed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock relives the trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an "I am a terrible person" chapter. It's rape. If you don't want to read that skip to the next chapter. I apologize in advance.

There was a leak somewhere in the warehouse. He could smell it—like musty old rags, and the bleach they used to mask it. It all mixed with the scent of blood. He’d gotten in a few punches before the man became angry. A swift jab to the cheek and a kick to the ribs was all it took to send Sherlock to the ground.

“There’s fight in you. Amusing.” The man straddled him to examine the bruises already starting to form. “Those cheekbones of yours...” Pain sparked through Sherlock as the man pressed down. “They'll make someone very happy one day.”

Sherlock sniffed and the man laughed—that bone-chilling laugh. He swiped his finger through the pool of blood collecting above Sherlock’s lip and smeared it across the boy's cheek. Dazed, Sherlock did nothing.

The man moved his hands across Sherlock’s bare chest. “I had thought we were civilized, Mr Holmes. Above brute force and physical violence. Men of intellect. Apparently, I was wrong.”

Sherlock’s cry echoed through the empty space as the man pressed down hard.

“A broken rib is quite painful, isn’t it?” The man tilted his neck with a crack. “Naughty, naughty, Sherlock.” He pressed harder, sending a spasm through Sherlock’s body. His back arched, his shoulders rolled, and his hips bucked, but the man held him steady. “And naughty boys should know their place.”

“Please...” Sherlock whimpered. “I haven’t—”

“Been a bad boy? We both know that’s not true.”  Sherlock winced again as the man bound his wrists. The angle was wrong and put pressure on his shoulders but he did nothing to stop him. Sherlock swallowed as his captor dropped his trousers to the floor and went to work Sherlock’s jeans. He knew what was to come and waited for his captor to turn him over. Instead, he felt those wet hands shimmy his underwear to the cement and force his leg up. The boy squirmed as hot fingers moved across his backside. “I want you to watch me, Sherlock. I want you to see me control you.”

He grimaced as long fingers traced the rim of his arsehole.  “You...you...” he stuttered, “...don’t control me.”

“Of course I do. You’ll let me do whatever I wish. You won’t even fight me anymore.” He ran his tongue up Sherlock’s thigh until he reached the base of the boy’s cock. “I could untie you right now...if it wasn’t more fun this way. You wouldn’t want your little secret to come out.”

Sherlock howled as the man slid his finger deeper.  “It’s funny how easily arrogance can be shattered. He licked his teeth and his finger moved slowly, stretching, plying, without so much as an ounce of spit to ease its movement.  “I can make you scream, if I wish.”  With the simple twitch of his hand he did.

Sherlock couldn’t hold it back. He tried, but the shock and the pain was too much. Sweat dappled his face. Dread filled his mind. The man leaned in and placed his other hand on Sherlock’s quickly beating heart. “We haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

A moment of relief caused Sherlock to sigh, as the man slid his finger free. “You’re so tight. Poor boy.”

His mind told him to look away, but he found himself staring as the thin man squeezed the lube into the palm of his hand. After lathering himself, Sherlock felt fingers again, this time plying the cool wet gel. He shivered and the man knelt between his splayed legs—his hard, slick, cock in his hands. Those dead eyes burned into him as the man pressed the tip against his unwilling hole. Sherlock choked back a scream as he began to push. Inch by inch, he worked forward, devouring every agonized yelp. The boy felt himself stretching around the foreignness—but not wide enough, not fast enough.

"Please..." He cried to deaf ears.

His muscles flexed as he tried to hold his footing, sending wave after wave of pain through him. It seemed to spur on his captor, who gasped at the sensation, lingering as Sherlock wailed. He worked slowly, too slowly, waiting until Sherlock thought it was through before forcing himself deeper. Sherlock grimaced as the man shifted his weight and gripped his shoulders, forcing their bodies together. His body radiated heat—a pungent stink when mixed with the musky basement and the smell of sex. His thin legs were strong and continued to work. The boy whimpered. He could feel himself rip as the man sheathed the last of his erection. The man knew it too.

“Poor, Sherlock,” he whispered. “Accept it. Let it go. This will happen no matter what you try to do.” He swivelled his hips and Sherlock cried out. “Ah. Ah. Ah. Relax. Shhh...” He started a new rhythm, easing himself nearly all the way out before he began again. He held down Sherlock’s shoulders as he protested. His breath hung thick in his chest as he moved. _Back and forth. Slowly. Patiently_. “This is our business transaction, Sherlock.” He breathed out _. Back and forth_. _Slowly. Lazily_. “It doesn’t have to be un-pleasurable for you.” He moaned as he dug his fingers into Sherlock’s collarbone. _Back and Forth._

"Stop..." Sherlock wheezed.

“Leverage...” His captor murmured as he began to pump faster.

Sherlock was silent as the pain ate at him. He stared at the ceiling, trying remember what it was before this. Before the violation, the weight, and the smell. Everything burned. His legs shook and throbbed. It was agony and yet his body betrayed him. His captor laughed as Sherlock’s erection pressed firmly against his stomach. The friction of skin on skin sent a tiny sting of pleasure against the terror and pain. Sherlock gasped despite himself. _Shame._

“See what obedience gets you? I can make you pant like a dog." 

Sherlock grunted as the man thrust harder.

“Did you have a dog Sherlock? Of course you did. What was his name?”

Faster. The boy grasped at the cement floor. His nails chipped on the cold cement. He writhed under the man’s strength.

“What did you call the animal that crawled into your bed and licked your face?”

Harder. There was nothing Sherlock could do. His body was finished. He cried out over and over. He couldn’t catch his breath and the force of the man’s body was too much. **_Thwack._** He head knocked against the wall. **_Thwack._** He had no strength to steady himself. **_Thwack._** The man saw it too but continued to plunge deeper.

“The dog.”

It was he who was panting now—he who whined with every shift of his hips.

Thwack

Thwack

Thwack

“Redbeard.”

The man licked his lips and gripped Sherlock’s shoulders—gasping, hissing—as he drove himself forward one final time. In the daze of it all, Sherlock felt the hot come fill him. As the man stood, it began to drip down his leg. He felt numb. He felt sick. He felt ashamed.

“Red beard.” The man repeated. He said the words like he was tasting them.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short continuation. :)

“Sherlock?”

Greg kicked the door open when he heard no response. The floor was scattered with pills and pill bottles. The bathmat was soaked with bleach. Without hesitation, he pulled back the shower curtain.  His stomach dropped when he found the source of the noise. The boy was slumped against the wall. A distant stare graced his face as he continued to bash his head against the tiles. Over and over again. The sound was sickening.

Immediately, Greg jumped into action, putting his hand between the boy’s head and the hard surface. Water sprayed his hair and back as he stepped inside. It quickly soaked his pyjama bottoms as he dragged the sopping wet boy from shower.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked again, leaning the boy against the wall. When Sherlock continued in silence, he gently moved his damp hair away from his face and lightly touched the back of Sherlock’s head. The boy barely winced. Lestrade crouched in front of him and used his thumb and forefinger to open the kid’s eyes. Only then, did Sherlock look away.  He grimaced and ran his hand through his hair, stopping where a bruise was surely beginning to form. When he pulled his hand back, his palm was covered in blood. Lestrade could see his shoulders tense, his breath catch, and his eyes widened in fear. He tried to stand but his legs twisted beneath him.

“Easy kid.” Lestrade tried to stay calm. It wouldn’t do either of them any good if he wasn’t. He slowly reached out, took Sherlock’s wrist, and held it steady. “It’s only your hand. See?”  There were three cuts across his right palm. Blood had mixed with water and dripped between his fingers.  “Doesn’t look deep. Must have sliced in on a razor or something. Nothing to worry about. Okay, Sherlock? Do you hear me?”

Sherlock nodded slowly as he studied the cuts on his hand.

“Good.” Lestrade cupped the boy’s shoulder. “Now, this is important.” Every instinct, every ounce of his training told him that he’d let this go too far. He should never have brought the kid home, gotten...attached? That didn’t seem like the right word. Invested? Involved? This kid was like a dozen others he’d seen over the years, wasn’t he? He could bundle him up, ship him off, and get back to his life. Somehow, it wasn’t that simple. When he watched the kid, this Sherlock, he knew that those instincts were wrong. There was a strength in the boy, even as he strained to keep control and hide whatever it was that was eating at him. For some reason, Greg knew it was down to him to get through to this young man. Who else would put in the time?

“I need you to tell me what you’ve taken.” Sherlock looked down again but Lestrade wouldn’t let it go. “I need you to answer, kid. This isn’t a game.”

_“Is this a joke to you?”_

Sherlock shook his head and gritted his teeth.

“Please kid...”

“Nothing.” He said meekly.

“I’m not _that_ naive.”

“Nothing,” he repeated. “A couple of aspirin. That’s all.” The boy swallowed. “That’s all I...I wanted to...I couldn’t...I couldn’t but I wanted to...” Greg could hear the crackle in his voice and see the fear in his eyes.

 “Okay kid.” He rubbed Sherlock’s back reassuringly and smiled. It was a sad smile but genuine. “You had me scared for a minute.”

“You believe me?”

“Kinda have to, don’t I?”

Sherlock wiped his nose with his wrist. “Of course you don’t. You’re the police.”

“Yeah well, sometimes you just have to trust in someone. I’ll cross that bridge if you meet me halfway. Alright?”

Sherlock sniffed and nodded.

“Good. Now, let’s get you—” Lestrade’s words vanished as the boy began to sob, quietly at first.  Silent tears dripped down his face as he tried to hold it all back, but his shoulders shook as he struggled for breath, and Lestrade couldn’t help but pull him close. Sherlock sagged against Lestrade—his head nestled against the officer’s chest, his arms draped around his shoulders.  The sounds as he gasped and hiccupped chilled Greg to the bone, and he held the young man tight. “It’s okay, kid.”

“No. It isn’t,” the boy wheezed.

Greg stroked the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Well, it will be.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Mycroft. Lestrade and Sherlock make a deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. :( As always, comments welcome.

“It isn’t _okay_ , Sherlock. None of this is okay.” Mycroft brought his hand to his temple. “You can’t just sit here all day moping like a child.”

“Where else am I supposed to go?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Home perhaps? Mummy and daddy do worry about their little boy.”

Sherlock scoffed and hugged his knees. “Living there is like a prison—a dull, tedious, prison.”

“Tedious? And there’s nothing tedious about playing den mother to your sulking baby brother? I have work to do, Sherlock, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult with you lounging about.”

“Lounging...” He jumped up from his seat and began to pace the floor. “I stay out of your way.”

“You’ve taken over my entire bloody flat.” Mycroft gestured around the room. “It’s a sty. Books, papers, experiments. Is that a skull?”

“Not a real one.”

“It’s too much, Sherlock. You can’t be doing this. Not now.”

Sherlock glared at his brother. “And why is that? Schoolwork getting you?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“No, I doubt that...but this new job, that’s something else entirely. What did you tell Mummy? Working as a library clerk. And she never batted an eye. But we both know that’s not true, don’t we? A library clerk doesn’t take meetings in the middle of the night. They wouldn’t keep their files under lock and key behind the fake panel in your bedroom closet. The suits, the cars...”

“Enough, Sherlock. This isn’t about me.”

“Who was it that tapped you? MI5? CIA?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were always made for government.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt his voice quiver but vulnerability was not an option. Instead, he spoke louder, a sharp edge punctuating every word. “Making mummy proud?” Mycroft only shook his head.  “Of course, you won’t be able to tell her. All of England would know every move you made.”

“I’m too busy for this, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft Holmes, the world’s most intelligent spy, sold out by his mother.”

“You’re leaving.”

“You can’t be serious. I—”

“Oh I’m quite serious, little brother. Run home.”

“Mycroft—”

“Run home. If you won’t, I’ll send you there myself.”

Sherlock froze. All of the mocking thoughts fled and chilly pangs of fear began to take their place. No one at home understood. At least Mycroft knew something was wrong. Apparently, that wasn’t enough.

“Please Mycroft...”

“Pack. I’ll have a car pick you up in an hour.” Mycroft ran a hand through his hair. “Try to be rational, Sherlock. Let mummy dote on you. Soon you’ll be off to school and can leave all this nastiness behind. Trust me. This is for the _best.”_

Sherlock was quiet for a moment as the words bounced around in his head. Finally, he locked eyes with his brother. He bit his lip. “Why would I ever trust you?”

*****

Sherlock had the overwhelming realization that he was naked. He could feel his damp cheek pressed against the man’s chest and fingers stroking his bare skin.  He could hear the older man’s heartbeat as he whispered soothing words. The hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck pricked.

“Stop.” He muttered, shaking his head. Too many people had asked him to trust them. Where were they now?

“Stop.” Lestrade’s arms fell to his side but Sherlock felt the panicked need to get away. He pushed himself away hard, sprawling backwards onto the ground. A cry escaped his lips as the bleach soaked into the cuts on his palm. As he scrambled to the corner, clutching his hand, he could feel Lestrade’s eyes on him.  He pulled his legs tight, trying to hide his nakedness, and looked at the ground.

“Okay,” was all that the officer said as he rose from his knees and walked out of the room. Moment by moment, the fog began to lift from Sherlock’s mind, separating the past from the present. He was in officer Lestrade’s flat. Not the bespectacled man’s. Not Mycroft’s.  He was safe. Or was he? Lestrade had been kind so far, but a nagging in the back of Sherlock’s mind made him uneasy. Why would a police officer take in a kid? Why would he take the risk? It didn’t add up.

_Everyone wants something, Sherlock, and with the right leverage they can get it._

_Question is, what can you get from them?_

Sherlock slid his hand over his thigh and across his cock. He sniffed back tears. It could be worse, he supposed. Lestrade seemed kind at least—a little bewildered, perhaps—but kind. If it meant a place to stay. If it meant someone understanding the addiction--not ignoring it like mummy or chiding him like Mycroft...It could be alright...

He breathed out, trying to remain calm. He shivered as the ache returned to his muscles and  rested his head on his knees, thinking about just how close he had come to taking those pills.

Lestrade returned with a stool and dressing gown draped over his arm. “Here. Cover yourself up. I’ll find you something else when we get this mess fixed up. Might be a bit big but it’ll do. Sherlock looked up but said nothing. “Well?”

Sherlock took the robe and pulled it on, tying it tightly around his waist. It was loose on his thin frame but the fabric was thick and warm. Comforting.

“Good. Now take a seat on the loo while I find my first aid kit. Should be in the cabinet, or did you toss it about too?”

“I think I saw it in the back.”

Lestrade rummaged around and pulled out what was need. He ran the tap and wet a towel before setting the stool in front of Sherlock. “Alright kid, let me see it.”

Sherlock looked away as Lestrade took his hand. “Like I said, doesn’t look like much but I’m betting it stings. On cue, Sherlock winced as Lestrade dabbed at the cuts with the towel. For a while, he worked in silence, cleaning and dressing the wound. Finally, he sighed.  “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“Once.”

“Hmm?”

“I tried...this...once. Once before.” Sherlock gritted his teeth as Lestrade pulled the bandage tighter.

Lestrade nodded. “What happened?”

“Why would I tell you anything?”

“Don’t know. Maybe because I’m listening.” He set the first aid kit on the ground. “Before or after the drugs?”

Sherlock wiggled his fingers. His voice was low. “After. But...”

“But what?”

“But it doesn’t much matter now, does it? Before, after, it’s all the same.” _Don’t be so dramatic, little brother._ “Just a stupid kid looking for attention.”

“Is that what they told —”

“They didn’t have to tell me anything. I could see it in their faces. That pity. Those looks."  He'd said too much, but it felt good to talk. Maybe it would be worth it. Maybe he could survive it. "...Mycroft’s constant reminders that he was the one who saved my life. The disappointment when the treatment didn’t work and...” He stopped when Lestrade put a warm hand on his knee.

“I know how tough it is, believe me, but we’re going to get you through this. I’m just going to need you do something for me.” _There’s always a price._ Sherlock swallowed as Lestrade patted his thigh. “You need to trust that I know what’s best here, kid. Kickin’ this is hard. No shame in that. Little by little. I know you want to quit this, get your life back don’t you kid.”

“I...”Sherlock’s eyes watered. “I just want it all to stop."

"So, can you do that for me?

_This is our business transaction..._

“Yes.”

Lestrade stood and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “Good. We’re all done here. Now, go into my room. I’ve got a phone call to make but I’ll be right back to get you out of that robe.”

_It doesn’t have to be un-pleasurable..._

Sherlock nodded and followed the officer from the room.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a memory. This fic has a short update. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading this! I've hit 150 kudos on this story and I'm utterly shocked. That's a nice little milestone for me! I'd like to do something nice for you guys for keeping with this angsty ridiculousness and its horrendous update schedule, so here's my offer: 
> 
> In honour of 150 kudos I'm taking requests. Just comment with a pairing and a prompt for a short little ficlet. I'll do my best to fill whatever floats your boat in between tweaking my plot problems on this ole thing. :) Doesn't even have to be this fandom if you don't want it to be. If I know it, I'll write it. 
> 
> You guys are great!

Lestrade’s room was in most ways exactly like the rest of his flat—slightly unkempt and fairly unorganized. The only difference was the sinking feeling it gave Sherlock in the pit of his stomach. The bed sheets were crumpled and the tips his shirts were sticking out from the drawers of a haphazardly closed dresser. The earrings were gone from the nightstand. A stack of folders took their place.  He wanted desperately to flip through the pages and fill his mind with facts and figures, but he had made his choice.  It was the most logical one. The best result. He would do whatever Lestrade asked without a fight, without complaint. Then maybe, just maybe, the smell and taste and pain of the nights in the warehouse would fade. Maybe his throat wouldn’t threaten to close every time he heard footsteps in the darkness or felt the brush of another’s skin. Maybe the thought of an intimate moment would cease to turn his stomach, that the sensation of an erection would bring him more than feelings of shame and disgust.

_“There’s nothing you can do, Sherlock. I own you.”_

He was right. He owned his thoughts, his feelings, his worth, and his mind. But Sherlock would change that. He had to.

Sherlock steadied his hands as he set to work gathering the necessary things—condoms, lube, even a small flask of what smelled like whiskey. It was all easily found. Lestrade was quite transparent and his bedroom was no different.  Sherlock placed it all on the bed, hoping Lestrade would see them before he went to his business—and hoping he would use them. He tried to pull the bedding straight before he tossed the dressing gown to the floor and slid beneath the sheets. At least the mattress was soft. And clean.

His damp body left an imprint on the fabric as he tried to find a comfortable position. It would be okay, he told himself. Everything would be okay. He let his head sink into the pillow as he stared up at the ceiling. The man’s dead, shark-like eyes stared back through his memories. He remembered lying sprawled out in front of him after the man was through. His body burned and pulsed, like the cuts on his hand did now.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to force out the image. Lestrade would use him too, in whatever ways he saw fit. His stomach leapt as he pictured the police officer stripped naked before him, and lurched at the thought of Lestrade’s hands gripping his waist and holding him down. Lestrade's lips tasting the back of his neck. His own lips tasting the tip of Lestrade's cock. Lestrade would own him then. 

The boy steadied his breath. He clenched and unclenched his hand as he tried to relax. At least is wasn't the man in the glasses. He wasn’t trapped in a concrete room. Lestrade had given him a place to sleep and a choice to stay. A gentle touch instead of fists. The man’s deviant smirk blurred and was replaced by Lestrade’s smile, his hard eyes by Lestrade’s kind ones.

_“It’s okay kid...”_

Sherlock moved his bandaged hand to his groin. He would be ready. He would be willing. Slowly, he began to stroke. He closed his eyes and hung onto the image of Lestrade’s face. His strong jaw. The silver grey that dappled his temples. He was a handsome man without a doubt. The smell of him still clung to the sheets and his smooth voice rang in his ears. He would give Lestrade anything he wanted, not matter what his preference. Sherlock’s hand continued to move.

Nothing. Not a stir.

The boy grunted in anger and frustration, his penis limp and lifeless in his hand. The man’s laughter started to trickle in—self doubt, loathing.

“Please...” he murmured, rubbing faster, pleading with a god he had long since forgotten. He grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. Still, he felt nothing.

_“I own you.”_

“No...” He swallowed back a sob as his mind took him back to the cold car park where is had all begun. Images and sounds blended together.

_The honking of a horn. The scrape of metal. The wind howling._

Time and again, these things had sent Sherlock spinning. He could feel the darkness and the fear calling to him. The panic.

But, for a moment something was different. A glimpse of something. Someone.

_A crisp collar and posture to match. His army fatigues were pressed and tucked into flawlessly kept boots, blackened to shine. A soldier...every inch of him a soldier._

Sherlock moaned as his hand found an even stroke.

_Of course, that had been a trap as well. The man knew, somehow he knew. Knew Sherlock would be distracted by the young recruit. Caught off guard by his neatly trimmed hair, strong crossed arms and serious stare._

He gasped as his erection built. Somehow it didn’t matter.

_He eyes sparkled as he glanced at his watch. He was pacing. Waiting. The frown was somehow charming. Perfect._

Sherlock bit his lip and forced himself to pause as he heard footsteps. He wiped sweat from his brow and pulled the blanket close. No, he had to save himself for Lestrade. Lestrade was the way. He rolled onto his side as the officer set down a tray. His heart pounded as the older man sat on the edge of the bed. There was no turning back. This was their business transaction.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a surprise waiting for Lestrade.
> 
> I am soooooo soooooo sorry this took so long.

Lestrade hung up the telephone with a sigh. He knew the call had to be made, but a feeling of doubt sat in the pit of his stomach.  He’d let this go too far. Maybe he’d overestimated how much he could help. He definitely underestimated how willing the kid was to hurt himself. The smell of bleach permeated through the flat. That would have to be dealt with later. For now, the kid’s safety was most important. Addiction was one thing, he’d dealt with that before, but the darkness, Sherlock’s vacant stare as he pulled the boy from the shower—that was another. The thought made him shiver.  

The kettle whistled and Greg placed the teapot on a tray.  He hoped the tea was enough to calm his own nerves. The kid needed a rock, and however else he’d botched this up Lestrade was determined to do what he could.  The boy was on the verge of opening up but there was something stopping him—something messy.

The boy was curled up in the bed with the blankets pulled tightly around himself, and for a moment Greg though maybe it was best to leave him be.   He set down the tray and waited, trying to find the right words. Finally, sat on the edge of the bed and cleared his throat. “Kid, I know that you don’t have any damn reason to trust me, but—”

“I do.” Sherlock’s voice was low, clear and filled with the bravado of the impetuous young man he’d led into his home days before. It almost seemed genuine, confident, but there was a waver around the edges. It was a mask, a good one, but still a facade.

Sherlock swallowed and tried to steady himself. “I trust you.”

 This was the moment. This would change everything. He slid his hand from beneath the blanket and touched Lestrade’s wrist.  He stroked it, back and forth.

“What are you doing?”

“The inevitable,” he replied, leading the officer’s fingers underneath the sheet.  Sherlock closed his eyes as he guided Lestrade across his thigh. He bit his lip as he urged Lestrade’s strong fingers up the length of his semi-erect prick, and back down. This was the answer. Still, Sherlock’s chin began to quiver as he continued. Tears welled in his eyes as he pressed himself into Lestrade’s palm and closed his fingers around him.

To Sherlock’s surprise, Lestrade pulled away.

Greg sat frozen, staring down at the young runaway. His mind was reeling—a blur of messages trying to break through, every bit of him trying to comprehend just what had taken place. He glanced at his hands and his stomach rolled...the feeling of the boy’s soft skin. Lestrade quickly stood, distancing himself, and turned away.

“What the hell are you doing, kid?”

He could hear the bedding rustle as the boy stood.

“Please...” Sherlock touched Greg’s shoulder. “Please, I can do better. I’ll do whatever you—”

Greg turned around and swore under his breath. Sherlock stood before him, stark naked. Unlike earlier, he made no attempt at hiding it. His back was straight and his hands were clenched at his site. His eyes pleaded for something Greg did not understand. Greg’s face burned red as his eyes darted to the ceiling.

“If this isn’t what you want...”

“Jesus Christ. Want?” Confusion and frustration punctuated every word as he traipsed across the room to pick up the dressing gown. He tossed it at Sherlock. “Put that on, now!”

“I can—”

“Clothes. Not another word until clothes.”

The boy obeyed and draped the robe over his shoulders.

“Jesus Christ...Jesus Christ.” Lestrade ran his hands through his hair and over his mouth as he muttered. “So what? Is this some kind of game? Entrapment? You got a video recorder around here?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Then what?!”

 “I thought you wanted it...”

“Why? Why the bloody hell would you think that?”

Sherlock crossed his arms and stuck out his chin. “I’m not a child. I...I know everything has a price...and what is expected of me when...”

“When?”

“When someone like you picks up...someone like me.”

Lestrade began to pace the room. He could barely look at the kid. It filled him with disgust, anger.“Someone like me?”

“Old men who...who...pick up...boys.”

“Pick up boys?!” He couldn’t keep his emotion in check. He eyed the teapot and was tempted to throw it. It wasn’t just the ugly words spilling from the boy’s mouth. It was what put them there. He took a breath.  “ _I_ got _you_ off the street.”

“People rarely do anything out of the goodness of their hearts.”

“I did it to get you clean! To keep you from doing something _really_ fucking stupid, and get you back home.”

Sherlock took a step forward. “You could have taken me to hospital.”

He was right. “I could have. But I didn’t.”

“Why?”

It was the same question Greg had been asking himself all morning. He shook his head and sat down on the bed. It would have saved him a lot of trouble if he had. He tried to keep his voice calm. He wasn’t altogether successful.

“Maybe I’ve seen your lot before. Smart kids making bad decisions.” He paused.  “Shouldn’t end you. Kids like you get put in the system, put in a file, and that’s it. You’ve got that hanging on you. Or, you’re sent back to some family that isn’t quite right and your name pops up in the papers a year later. Maybe I didn’t want you nagging at my conscience. Or maybe I didn’t want to deal with damn the paper work and would rather be sitting here, trying to explain to some kid that I have _no_ intention of _fucking_ him.”

“Unorthodox.”

“Yeah.” Greg scratched his neck.

“Could get you into trouble with your department.”

“Yeah, well sometimes a bit of a headache is worth it to do the right thing.”

Sherlock fiddled with the robe’s belt. “You said...you said you wanted me out of this robe.”

_Jesus, did he? Were those the words he’d used?_

“I meant we needed to find you something better to wear since your stuff is drowning in bleach in my bath. I didn’t mean...I’m not that kind of guy, Sherlock. You’re just a kid and anyone who would...” Greg couldn’t even say the words but he watched Sherlock’s shoulders sag. Instead, he tried to lighten the mood. “Besides, I have a girlfriend.”

“No you don’t”

He was probably right. He hadn’t heard a word from her since the fight. Even in the midst of a disaster, the kid was perceptive. “Okay, I up until recently had a girlfriend.”

Sherlock smiled.

Greg got up and pulled a pair of drawstring trousers and a t-shirt from one of the drawers. “Put these on. When you’re ready come out to the kitchen and we’ll start to figure this all out. There’s tea there if you want it.”

As Lestrade stepped into the hallway, he heard the phone begin to ring. Hopefully the person on the other end had some answers.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aftermath continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for how long this took...the next one will be sooner.

Sherlock didn't want tea. He didn’t want tea, or clothes, or promises. He just wanted to understand. Reason had always been his crutch. Mycroft had made sure of it. Every problem had a solution. Every equation an answer. But now...

He’d thought he’d found it—that one missing piece, that little thing to hold onto his sanity—but he had miscalculated, misjudged, and that was just as terrifying as any of it. Had he really made such a mistake? The look of disgust on Lestrade’s face had surprised him...the way the officer had recoiled. All of the signs were there. Lestrade had touched him. He’d let him into his home. Everything made sense, and yet, Sherlock had been wrong. If he couldn’t rely on his mind, what could he rely on?

Nothing. There was nothing. 

He took a breath and settled himself back down on the bed, pushing the bottle of lube to the floor and loosing the condoms in the folds of the sheets. His legs shook. The weight again formed in his chest. Mycroft was right. He’d always been right. He was a stupid, broken, over-dramatic boy who was a burden to everyone. There was no way to fix it, no way out. He was even too foolish to end it properly. He let the tears come and stream down his cheeks as he clutched the dressing robe.  For five minutes, then ten, he let himself cry. He let the ache take over, the self-loathing, and the despair. He would never be clever enough, worthy enough. He would always be broken and used. There would never be anything to stop it, or anyone to take it away. Not Lestrade. Not the soldier. He would always feel the touch of the dead-eyed man. Sherlock cried until his eyes burned and his skin was flushed.

Then he took a breath. He wiped his eyes and stood. “Better get on with it,” he whispered into the empty room.

He pulled on the trousers and synched them tight, though they still barely clung to his hips.  Lestrade wasn’t a big man but on Sherlock’s thin frame, the fabric draped. The shirt only fared slightly better. He looked a mess in the baggy clothes but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Lestrade hung up the telephone as Sherlock sat down at the kitchen table.

“That’s better,” Greg said with a smile.

“Do you actually wear this? No wonder your girlfriend left.”

Greg furrowed his brow but said nothing. The bravado was back, and the boy’s sharp tongue, but it was no disguise for the red eyes and tired rasp in his voice.  Lestrade stuffed a scrap of paper into his pocket and pulled up a chair.

“So, you think you’re here because I’m looking for what, a rent boy?”

The boy kept quiet.

“I’m not. I might have been sharp before but I want to make this clear, Sherlock. I don’t want anything from you.  Not a thing, and whether or not you believe me doesn’t change that fact.” Greg ran his hand through his hair, trying to come up with the words that could convince him, something the scared kid could latch onto. He cleared his throat. “It’s not a theory, Sherlock. It’s not a puzzle or a game. It’s a fact.” Sherlock avoided Lestrade’s eyes. “Really kid, I’m here to help. I’m no psychiatrist but—”

“Who was on the telephone?” Sherlock interrupted.

“What?”

“The telephone. The telephone. It only rang twice so you must have answered it.  Pen and paper moved to the middle of the counter. You were taking notes. So who was it?”

“Work, if you must know.”

“Why?”

“Why work?”

“Why now? You’re supposed to be on holiday. Why would they be calling if you’re not expected to be home?”

“Maybe they forgot.”

“They didn’t.”

Lestrade rubbed his temple. “Because I called them first, alright? Checking up on a case.” Greg grabbed a stack of folders from the counter and dropped them in front of Sherlock. “This case. Was going to return them to the office before we headed out. Didn’t get around to it. They said they’d call if they needed it. Guess they do, so I said I’d bring them in, if you’re up for a trip.”

“You want me to go to the station?”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not leaving you here by yourself.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, trying to keep his composure. He’d been to a police station before. An officer had found him that night, wandering around the street in a drugged up haze and hauled him in.

Even in his clouded state, he remembered the people darting past him while he waited. They were busy. Too busy to stop or notice.  They all just walked by as he slumped in his chair. Bruises decorated the side of his face. His body stung and ached with every movement.  His arms itched and his eyes burned. A few turned their eyes to him. These disapproving faces etched their way into his mind beside so many others. The ones that did stop talked as if he wasn’t even there. Their words were fuzzy but somehow stayed.

_“I’m not a junkie.” Sherlock remembered repeating. “I’m not...not a junkie...”_

_The officer’s cold demeanour never changed. “But you are on drugs, yeah?”_

Drugs...yes...he must have been on drugs. _“I didn’t take...I was taken...”_

_“Who’s this one?” another officers asked._

_“Runnaway, delinquent, junkie kid. Got himself into some trouble. Parents are on their way.”_

_“I didn’t...didn’t run away...” He tried again but no one seemed to care. “He...he took me...”_

_“Gotta feel sorry for the parents. With a kid like that...”_

_“I’m not...please I’m not...”_

_“Feel sorry for me. I’ve got to take care of this shit. Should be spending my time on something better than babysitting some sixteen year old junkie.”_

_“He didn’t...I didn’t..”_

_“What’s the kid saying?”_

_“Talking nonsense again. All the drug cases are the same. Liars that think that life has no consequences.”_

_“I’m not lying...”_

_“Sure kid.”_

_In Sherlock’s blurred mine he heard the voice of the man with the glasses._

_“No one will believe you, Sherlock. I’ve made sure of it.”_

“Sherlock?”  Greg knew he had said something wrong when the boy stayed silent. His eyes seemed vacant as he stared at the pile of papers.  “Listen kid, if you don’t want to go I can figure out—”

“No.” Sherlock avoided Lestrade’s glance. “I...I’ll go. It just seem so extraneous. A waste of time  and I—”

“Have better things to do?” Greg’s smirk was met with an exasperated grimace. “I know what you’re doing. Changing the topic. Picking on the police. I don’t really want to talk about this either—”

“Then stop.”

Greg could see the boy’s fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers. “I’m not letting it go.”

“It was a miscalculation. I miscalculated your interest.”

“You think the sex thing is what's bothering me? You thought about ending you life Sherlock” Greg slid his hand across the table but the boy didn’t take it. “Whatever that was in my bedroom has something to do with it, but something has to be real bad before...." He couldn't finish the sentence. The boy shifted nervously too. "You can tell me, Sherlock. Whatever problems you’ve had with family, adults, police—it doesn’t much matter. This “old man” is on your side. I don't want to see this end badly, and I want to get you through whatever the hell this is.”

“You sound like a melodramatic greeting card.”  Sherlock’s words may have been biting but his body language told a different story. His shoulders relaxed and he seemed more at ease. “Can I look at these?” he asked, thumbing the edge of one of the folders. Greg licked his lips. He wasn’t going to get the boy to talk.

“Sure kid," he answered trying to keep the dismay out of his voice. Those words made Sherlock flinch. Greg begrudgingly stood. "Not too exciting. Financial crimes. No murders like in those book of yours. See if you can put together more than we have. Keep yourself busy. I’ll make us some breakfast. How do you like your—”

Sherlock was no longer paying attention.  The files and reports had already taken over.


	15. Chapter 15

“You okay?” Lestrade glanced over at Sherlock as he flicked on the car’s turn signal. The boy silently stared out the passenger window, clutching a folder to his chest. Sweat beaded on his temples and the colour had faded from his cheeks. “Sherlock?”

“I’m fine.” He answered, leaning back against the seat.

“I can open a window if—”

“I said I’m fine.” It was a lie of course. The withdrawal symptoms had found him again and his stomach rolled with every bump in the road. From Lestrade’s tone, he could tell his attempts to mask it weren’t working.

“We can turn around, kid.  I’m sure there isn’t anything in that file that can—”

“There’s everything in that file.” Sherlock rubbed his eye wearily. “The manager is lying. You can’t get across town that quickly at that time of day. His daily logs are smudged more so than usual, indicating increased perspiration. A nervous disposition the day the transfer was completed, and even these hilariously unorganized interview note show he had previously attempted to use company funds for personal gain.”

“The company sponsored his granddaughter’s dance recital.”

“Fraud is fraud. Dig deeper and I guarantee you’ll find what you’re looking for. He’s barely trying to hide it. If anyone on this case were competent –” A wave of nausea forced him to stop as Lestrade made another turn. He swallowed, trying to keep as much composure as he could, while avoiding Lestrade’s critical stare. Keep strong. Keep going. Take a breath. “If...if the inconsistency was found on a Wednesday and the work week starts on a Monday, it stands to reasons that—”

“You don’t miss much, do you?” Greg slowed the car and he pulled up to the station. “You know, you could make quite a detective if you figured yourself out a bit.” When Sherlock didn’t respond, he chuckled. “Or is law enforcement too mundane for you?”  He took the folder and turned off the car. “Come on. This won’t take long.”

Sherlock rolled his eye as Lestrade turned off the car, but slung his bag onto his shoulder and followed. The station wasn’t as impressive as he’d expected. It was clean, but noisy, and the door squeaked as Lestrade held it open.  Sherlock took another breath and walked inside. He couldn’t quite steady is hands. The buzz of the neon lights irritated his already pounding headache and the click of heels on the tiled floor...

 

_The tap of the umbrella’s point against the concrete rang out into the room. He struck the ground with every step. Tap. Tap. Tap._

_“Remind you of something, Sherlock? Someone?”_

_The man swung it back and forth slowly, letting it scrape against the concrete._

“Sherlock?”

_Sherlock lifted his head when he felt the umbrella touch his foot._

_“Does this unnerve you? Telling. Your brother is such an interesting young man.”_

_“How do you know—”_

_“Mycroft?” The man in the glasses smirked and kicked Sherlock’s legs apart. “I pay attention.”_

_Tap._

_“What are you doing?”_

_“Learning.” Sherlock could still feel the touch of the umbrella’s hook run slowly up his thigh._

_Tap._

_“It’s funny how effective the spectre of a disapproving big brother can be.”_

“Kid?”

_“So defiant, Sherlock, but so eager for approval. Blinding you to what he’s capable of. Unwilling. Unmoved. Unfortunate.”_

_Sherlock let out a wail as the man rammed the hook of the umbrella into his stomach with all his strength. He gasped and groaned at the second and doubled over after the third. The room started to blacken as bile found his throat._

_“You’re alone, Sherlock.”_

Sherlock stumbled but found an arm around his shoulders to steady him. His stomach turned.

“Hey,” Greg gripped the boy as he swayed. Sweat had soaked his collar. “Sherlock?”

“The loo." He swallowed. "Where’s the...”

“ ‘round the corner on the left.”

The boy bolted down the corridor as fast as his shaky legs could go, nearly running into the well dressed woman heading towards Lestrade.  Lines creased the corners of her dark eyes. She was at least ten years older than Greg. She pursed her lips as she stepped from Sherlock’s path and straightened her pristine suit.

“Well Greg, you got here quickly.” She smirked. “You need to learn how to take a vacation.”

“Priorities, I guess.”

 “That's what worries me. I assume that queasy kid sprinting down the hall is the boy you were telling me about.”

“He is, yeah.”

“And should I be worried?” Greg could feel her studying him.He rolled his shoulders. It was always hard to lie to his boss. She had a way of seeing right through him.

“He’s just a little under the weather.”

“Mmmhmm...”

“Detective inspector—”

“Don’t tell me. I’d rather be able to deny this whole thing.” She handed him a folder. “Sherlock Holmes. Missing persons file from about a year ago. Wasn’t hard to find with a name like that. Parents are out in the country. Filed when he didn't come home. Collected him when he did. Ever you’d expect from a runaway—vagrancy, disorderly conduct...” The detective inspector crossed her arms. “Drug use.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Mrs Holmes called daily for progress back then. Hasn't been a word since--"

 

“Yeah, well there’s a brother that might have something to do with it.” Lestrade thumbed through the file. 

“Promise me I’m not going to regret this.”

He nodded without looking up.

“I mean it Greg. You’re walking a thin line and I can’t figure out why.”

“I know this isn’t—”

“Just tell me you know what you’re doing.”

He couldn't. He wanted to but he couldn't. "The kid needs help, Maria. I'm going to make sure he gets it."

 “Okay.” She sighed. "Okay. But, if you want my advice, call his parents. Now, and be done with this. Whatever help you think you can be, whatever relationship you think this is, it’s not worth losing your career over. I’m keeping all this quiet because I know you Lestrade. Don’t you dare let this come back to bite us. Think about what you’re doing. You hear me?”

“Thank you.”

Her smile was sceptical. “Now, what else do you have there?”

“Hmm? Oh.” Greg awkwardly pulled the folder from under his arm, having forgotten it was there. “Had this at home. Low level fraud. Low priority, really. Forgot I had it. Might want to take another look at the manager when you’ve got time. His story has some holes.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

It wasn't only the withdrawal that kept Sherlock’s head pounding and his insides turning, although he was certain his other discomforts could be blamed on it.  He flushed the toilet, careful not to look into the bowl and let the spinning water send him into another fit. After washing his hands, he rinsed the taste from his mouth and wiped his lips. The water was too cold and sloshed in his unsettled stomach. For a moment, he thought it would start again, but he swallowed it back, taking in air, and letting the feeling pass.  Every bit of him ached. Every bit of him felt used and tired. He just wanted to go home, curl up in a blanket and sleep away the nastiness. But, there was no home to go to, no safe space, and the nastiness didn't disappear when he closed his eyes.

_“You’re alone, Sherlock”_

_The man leaned in._

_His hot breath...His warm sticky touch..._

_“The world will never see you as anything but an outcast, a freak.”_

_Sherlock felt the man’s hand pawing at him, sliding over his chest and down his legs. One final humiliation. One last indignity._

_“You’ve been a good boy, Sherlock. Obedient. Well trained, like a sad puppy.” The rope around Sherlock’s arm tightened. “It seems it’s time to let you go.”_

_“You’ll let me go?” A red flush of relief crept across his cheeks._

_“What use are you to me here?” The man’s eyes gleamed beneath his glasses. “The door is open, Sherlock. All you need to do is walk through it.”_

_Sherlock swallowed. “I...I won’t tell...I won’t—”_

_“Of course you will. A pity no one will believe you...”_

_Sherlock remember the man’s strong hand around his wrist, and the sight of the needle as it struck a vein._

_“What—”_

_“A narcotic. Drugs are a funny thing. One rarely feels sorry for a junky. Not a surprising turn. Anti-social teenage boy. Explains so much.” He pushed down on the plunger. Sherlock’s world began to blur as the drug took effect. Tears began to drip._

_“As I said...No one will believe you, Sherlock. I’ve made sure of it.”_

 

Sherlock wiped his eyes. Maybe Lestrade had been telling the truth and this little detour would be over soon. Then again, maybe it was a ploy of its own. Would he leave him here? Would he file a report or hand him off to someone else. Sherlock couldn’t blame him really. Lestrade had no reason to help him and no reason to keep his word.  He had a career think about, and Sherlock was nothing more than a nuisance that could jeopardize it all. And for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Sherlock stepped back into the hallway. The noise was unbearable.

Voices, keyboards, the squeaking of chairs.

The smell was worse.

Cologne, body odor, extremely burnt coffee.

He could see Lestrade talking with a woman. Was she the one that would sit him down? Scold him for his recklessness?  Tell him he was a foolish addict just as the rest of them had? Just as Mycroft had? A man with track marks up his arm sat near them, picking at his skin—a familiar itch.

_“Just some junky kid making his mother proud.”_

_“I’m not...” He tried again, but the words slurred together, failing before they left his mouth. The officer clicked off his radio and crossed his arms._

_“Who are you, kid?”_

_Sherlock looked up but couldn’t find an answer. He slouched against the cold cement steps, hoping that the world would make sense soon. They’d found him ten blocks from the building but Sherlock couldn’t remember getting there. His clothes were dirty and as the officer approached, a small bag slipped out of Sherlock’s pocket. The officer’s scowl of exasperation and disgust burned into the boy’s brain._

_“No one will ever believe you...”_

_“You need to find a puzzle.”_

 Sherlock lurched forward  as a man in a hurry bumped his shoulder. His cramped legs buckled but he remained upright. He reached for the wall to steady himself.

                “Sorry kid.”

_“Always in the way, Sherlock.”_

_“What a mess.”_

_“What a burden.”_

His mind yelled at him. His eyes darted around the room for an empty chair but couldn’t find one. He needed to sit. Slowly, he moved forward, clinging to the wall, until he reached a handle. He pushed the door open. The office was lined with shelves and books but the chair in front of a desk was all he saw. He plopped his body into it with a sigh and rested his head on the desk. He sobbed as he pounded his fist against the wood.

It was too much. Why was everything just too much? Why couldn’t he wake up and it all be simple, better, over? The woman who owned this office was content. The plants that sat in the corners were green and watered—tended to more carefully than by some hired staffer.  She cared. She liked to take care of things. Folders were piled neatly, precisely, careful not to block the photograph of the smiling little girl hugging her mum while wearing the hat from her uniform.  They had the same dark skin, the same curly hair, a mother and daughter looking absolutely content. The ordinary family portrait made Sherlock want to scream.

They were loved.

_“You’re alone, Sherlock”_

Sherlock glanced up at the name written on the door with tired eyes. In that instant, he hated Detective Inspector Maria Donovan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short update but I couldn't resist. This idea that Sally's Mother was also a badass detective wouldn't get out of my head. As always, thanks for reading. you guys really are the best!


	17. Chapter 17

Lestrade looked at his watch, up to the ceiling, and back to his watch again. He tried to keep the worry off his face, but was pretty sure Donovan had caught a glimpse.

_What the hell was taking so long? Should he go and check on the kid? Was he that sick? Had he found more pills? Drugs? Did he use this as his excuse to run?_

Time ticked by slowly. Lestrade ran his hand over his mouth nervously, debating what he should do.

 _Wait. Just wait,_ he thought. _Give the kid the benefit. That’s what he needs. That’s what he wants._

He made idle small talk—office politics, the latest football scores, awkward attempts to evade all questions about his breakup—but he couldn’t shake the worry. Donovan offered to grab him a drink from the break room and when she returned, Lestrade had unconsciously begun to pace. He barely stopped to take the steaming cup from his boss’s hand. She continued to talk and he nodded and grunted and “mmmhmmed” at vaguely the right times, but his mind continued to stray to Sherlock.

“Greg?”

“Hmm?”

Donovan shook her head. “Haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

He ran his hand through his hair. “Maria, I—”

“I get it. It’s what you do. This kid. Every case I’ve ever given you with a face to it. You latch on. That’s why you’re good at this job. Hell, you’ll probably have my job sooner rather than later, but only if you know where to end it. How to separate.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. The bags under your eyes? This...well, this entire situation really. You can’t help everyone, Greg. Remember that. And sometimes you just have to help yourself.” She squeezed his shoulder as she began to walk away. “Here comes your runaway. Try to get him out of here before I realize how bad this whole thing is.”

“I’ll be back in on Monday.”

“No you won’t,” She shouted on her way down the hall. “Take your damn vacation!”

She smiled at Sherlock as his shifted his bag onto his shoulder. He didn’t smile back. He kept his face stoic and his voice silent, his chin tilted in haughty defiance. Greg let out an annoyed breath. Sherlock kept walking.

“There you are.” Lestrade tried to look angry but it came off as relieved. As his feet stopped, he crossed his arms.

_Pull yourself together, Sherlock._

Mycroft’s exhausted voice pounded around his head.

_Mother’s liable to wear a rut through the dining room with all her pacing._

Keep calm. Find a puzzle. He looked back at Donovan and made a face.

“I take it we can leave?”

“Yeah kid, let’s go home.”

_Home._

Sherlock tried to shake off the word and pushed his way through the doors. Lestrade was on his heels by the time he reached the car.

“Kid?” Lestrade unlocked the door and Sherlock climbed in. He gripped the duffle bag to his chest.

_He remembered getting out and slamming the door, Mycroft waving haphazardly as the black town car drove away. Mummy was standing eagerly in the doorway, an eye-roll inducing grin plastered across her face. Sherlock felt the tension leave him as she scooped him into her arms and hugged him close. Her pink lipstick left a print on his forehead. For a moment he was at peace. Maybe Mycroft was right. Just maybe..._

_Then she spoke as she ushered him inside. “It’s so nice you’ve come **home** , Sherlock. And we have a guest. Take your shoes off. Don’t want to track in the mud. What did you say your name was, dear?”_

_“Poulsen.Valdemar Poulsen.”_

_Sherlock’s blood ran cold as the accented voice reached his ears. He wanted to run but his body wouldn’t move. All he could do was look up to see the man in the glasses sitting calmly at his mother’s kitchen table._

_“Yes, yes. Forgive me. I’m frightfully bad with names. All foreign ones sound the same to me.” Sherlock assumed the man had counted on that._

_“That’s alright.” He pivoted towards Sherlock, still standing in the doorway._

_“He’s here from the university, Oxford. To talk to you. Isn’t that a splendid thing to come home to? A professor of...what did you say?”_

_“Journalism.”_

_“An odd pursuit, but something to keep in mind, Sherlock.”_

_“I’m going to Cambridge.”_

_Don’t give up on opportunities, that’s what I say. You never know where life’ll take you. Isn’t that right, father?”_

_Sherlock’s dad smiled, nodded and went back to his newspaper._

_“Now, be a dear, Sherlock and get me a box of biscuits from the pantry. I’m sure mister P...p..Parson would like some with his tea.”_

Lestrade tried again. He hated driving in silence. “You didn’t have to be so cold to her, you know.”

“Who?” The boy twisted himself closer to the window. Lestrade would call the day a success if he didn’t have to clean vomit out of his car.

“Donovan. She’s got a lot on her plate. Runs this place. Husband's down on his luck. Little girl, Sally. Good kid. Younger than you. Doesn’t need me tying up her day.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I just solved her case.  Her day is untied.”

“A theory isn’t proof, kid. You might be right. You might know in your gut who done it. Hell, I’ve had half a dozen cases where I’d bet my life on a suspect.  Doesn’t mean a damn thing if you can’t prove it. If you can’t make it stick, follow procedure, doesn’t much matter.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Sounds tedious.”

“You have no idea. Guess you won’t be joining the force then?”

“I’ll consult.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, that’ll be the day.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, mulling it all over. “Will you be able to catch him?”

“Who?”

“The thief. The manager.”

“I’d say so. But, what does that matter to you? Thought you were in it for the puzzle?” Lestrade took a sip from his cup. The slurp...

 

_The man set down the tea and bit into a biscuit. Mother continued to natter on but he never took his eyes off Sherlock. Those dead eyes. Those horrible eyes. It made his stomach turn. Months and months had past. None of it had faded. In truth, things had begun to crumble, but there was one solace that he was away from him. Now Sherlock didn’t even have that. The man knew exactly what he was doing._

_With a mumble, Sherlock excused himself, not caring who had heard. He needed away. He shakily made his way to his bedroom. His heart and head pounded. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to steady himself against his dresser_

_“Hello, Sherlock. You don’t look well.” The door closed quietly. Prickles ran over Sherlock’s skin as the man moved closer. He was like a snake moving in and out of space, always just a little too close._

_“W...why?” Was all Sherlock could force. The man grinned._

_“Oh, I thought I would check on you.” His wet hand trailed down the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Lovely family.”_

_“D...don’t...”_

_“Oh, I wouldn’t harm them...not unless I had to. Why good would that do me? I have you.”_

_“Y...your name...I could...”_

_“Are you really that gullible?”_

_“But...”_

_“He was a fascinating man, and like him, I collect information.” He moved his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, holding the trembling boy still._

_“B...b..but why...why come back?” Panic. Anger. Hate. Fear._

_The man leaned in close, sliding back a lock of hair with his cheek. “Because I can. I own you, Sherlock. Until you have something worth enough to buy yourself back...well...” The man moved even closer, pressing his body against the boy’s, too close, breathing heavy as the seconds ticketed by. Sherlock’s mind flooded with the past. Pain and threat and fear mingled with the undeniable feeling of the man’s body, his hard cock, pressed against him. His vision began to blur. His lungs burned. As Sherlock collapsed to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, the man pulled a bag from his pocket._

_“To dull it, Sherlock.” He opened the door and walked away._

 

Sherlock was jolted as the car stopped. "We're back, kid. Take a load off. Nap or something while I clean the mess you've made."

No, Sherlock thought to himself, unzipping his bag. Inside lay a stack of files, each one carefully picked from Donovan's desk. He'd found his puzzle. This was how he would dull it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this didn't go where I was expecting but creepy flashback beats boring car ride? Anyway, thanks for hanging in there. :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, sorry for the delay. You guys are awesome. As always, comments are appreciated. :)

The flat still smelled like bleach. Everything smelled like bleach. Greg dropped an arm full of wet towels into a laundry basket and kicked it into the hall. At least there wasn’t much harm done and the pills were taken care of. The kid’s jeans had already started to spot and Greg would need a new bath mat but that was the extent of the damage. That ugly thing had been her idea anyway. Guess she wouldn’t be picking out the next one.

He wiped his nose on his wrist, trying to rid himself of an itch and the smell, as he walked down the hall. He’d assumed Sherlock had fallen asleep. There hadn’t been a sound from him since they got back. Kid probably needed it. Hell, Greg needed it, but his mind was too busy to make napping easy. He’d read through the report half a dozen times. Donovan was right. Nothing surprising. Another runaway. One who got home safely. He’d hoped there would have been more—some insight, something to make this all make sense—but he couldn’t find it. Textbook. The only thing he couldn’t shake was a short phrase from the officer’s notes.

_The boy kept saying, “I’m not a junky,” and a bag of heroin fell from his pocket._

The kid in the other room was cocky, confused, and disagreeable, but he’d never denied his habits. What happened between then and now? Scrubbing the toilet floor hadn’t taken his mind off it.

Greg walked into the living room with that question and a home phone number lodged in his mind. He didn’t know what to do with either. To his surprise, Sherlock was sitting upright on the sofa, a look of concentration plastered across his face. His teeth lightly bit his bottom lip as his eyes darted back and forth. Pages and pages had been spread out across the coffee table.

Lestrade cleared his throat loudly, but the boy continued to study the words without flinching. Lestrade tried again. “Where did all this come from?”

Sherlock said nothing and continued to jot down notes, only acknowledging Greg’s presence when the office picked up a page from one of the many piles.

 “You’re disrupting my system,” He mumbled, grasping for the missing document.

Lestrade held it just out of reach. He recognized the papers immediately. He should have. He spent most of his day writing them. Reports. Notes. Case files. An uneasy feeling crept into his stomach. What on earth was the boy doing now?

“I asked a question, kid. Where did you get these?”

“No one will miss them.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” Lestrade swore. Those were not the words he wanted to hear. He’d hoped that maybe the kid had been rummaging around the apartment, found something that Lestrade had forgotten he had. Copies, but no. The kid was out of site for less than twenty minutes and this is what happened.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re overreacting.”

“I am not. You stole documents from a bloody police station.”

“Borrowed.”

“I don’t care what you damn well call it. You took cases. How the hell did you get your hands on—”

“They were on Donovan’s desk.”

“Perfect.” Greg dropped the paper to the table and ran his hands through his hair. So, you took them directly from my boss. The DI.”

Sherlock snatched back the paper and put it back in its place. “It was hardly difficult. She should have been more careful.”

“She should have been...no. Fine. It’s done. I can’t...” Greg picked up a pile. Sherlock’s palms began to sweat.

“Put it back.”

“I can’t do this, Sherlock. Not if you’re going to do things like—”

“I need it. Please, the files—”

“I’ve tried to be reasonable—”

“Please, I need them—”

“I’m trying to help but I don’t know how to—”

“Please, I can solve it!”

Every bit of anger, aggravation, and exhaustion spewed from Lestrade in one loud belt. “They’re solved, Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and Lestrade slumped into his chair. The boy’s posture changed. He was on alert.  Shit, he’d scared the kid.

Lestrade leaned back and rubbed his eye. He took a breath and steadied himself before trying again. Sherlock continued to stare. “They’re solved, kid.” That was better. Calmer. He couldn’t quite keep out the anger but it was better. “They’re just a bunch of old cases. Nothing left to do.”

 

Sherlock’s heart was beating fast.

_Go home, Sherlock!_

_Ridiculous, Sherlock!_

_You’re wrong, Sherlock!_

He wanted to run. He could feel his eyes straining to hold back tears. Lestrade’s voice mixed with his brother’s, his mother’s, the man’s. His own voice was loudest of all.

_You’re worthless, Sherlock..._

“Sherlock?”

“You’re wrong.” He wrapped his arms around himself. His voice was barely above a whisper. “They’re connected.”

Lestrade shifted in his chair. “These aren’t cold cases. Just missing persons files. Kids, delinquents, runaways, addicts...”

“Liars.”  

_No one will believe you, Sherlock..._

They were all liars. Every single one of them. He’d lied too. He still lied. Over and over again, but no matter how many times he told mummy he was fine, it didn’t make it true. But maybe, just maybe he could be fine. Maybe Mycroft was right. The puzzle was the answer. These cases, these people...he was so close to finding answers and yet Lestrade was about to take that all away. The gnawing feeling in his stomach made him swallow. He’d become too complacent. He should have run when he snatched the files. He still could, take the files and hide. Lestrade was larger but Sherlock was quick.  A swift kick to the knee would bring him down. It could give him enough time to get outside. Once there he’d have to...

 “How?”

The word pulled Sherlock from his thoughts. “What?”

“Let’s hear it. How are these bloody cases connected?”

“You...you want me to tell you?”

“Well, it’s not like this can get worse for me. You stole from my boss. If I’m gonna get fired, I might as well know why.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitch.

“You won’t believe me.”

Lestrade crossed the room and took a seat beside him. “Oh yeah? Try me.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lalala I am trash who takes too long to update...

Greg tried to focus on Sherlock’s words. Fact after fact and figure after figure poured out of him as he paced the room. He seemed to have memorized every inch of the pilfered dossiers. To him, every word seemed important, from the dates of the events to the smudges on the paper. He noted the times and the specifics about each of the missing persons. Lestrade was impressed by the attention to detail. Sherlock’s ability to seek out information was astounding, but in this case, Greg still couldn’t see why it was useful. Sure, there were connections. There always were when you looked hard enough, but these kids didn’t seem to have anything in common—Men and women, different races, different parts of the city, at different times over the last five years. Hell, “kid” wasn’t even an accurate description. The youngest was 17. The oldest was 24.

Lestrade was more concerned about the way Sherlock’s hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, and how he clutched the files to his chest. Innocent phrases forced him to pause and regain his words. Hard, precise language tried to cover up the waver in his voice. Greg wasn’t convinced by some ridiculous conspiracy but there was something else hidden here. Something personal, and Greg couldn’t shake the fact that the boy had a file too—a file from Maria Donovan’s desk. So he let Sherlock talk, hoping he could read between the lines. After an hour, Greg found himself a glass of water. After two, a glass of whiskey.

 

The clink of the glass against the table startled Sherlock.

Whiskey on the rocks.

Cheap brand but potent enough.

Half finished.

He hadn’t even noticed Lestrade’s trip to the kitchen, but the detective must have gotten up. Sherlock flushed and took a sip of the water that had appeared in front of him. _Had Lestrade been listening at all?_

Sherlock cleared his throat and waited. He needed some sort of confirmation. When Lestrade responded his heart fell.

“So, what’s your theory, Sherlock?”

_Overreacting, are we Sherlock?  
No one will believe you..._

The boy wanted to scream. Lestrade hadn’t been listening. He was just like the rest of them. Or worse, just humouring him. Sherlock slumped into the chair and mumbled.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It better matter. I’m not losing my job over something that doesn’t matter.”

“You weren’t paying attention. You don’t see the pattern. You—”

“I have been. I’ve heard every word, but you’re right, I don’t see it. I can’t put it together.” Lestrade took another sip of his drink, scowling as the booze burned his throat. “You’ve run through all the facts but there’s a piece you haven’t told me yet. You’re making a jump I can’t follow.” Lestrade wiped his mouth. “What happened to these kids, Sherlock?”

_I won’t tell..._

_No one will believe you..._

“They were taken.”

Lestrade was quiet for a moment. Sherlock couldn’t read why.

“Taken?”

“Yes taken,” Sherlock repeated, this time keeping the nervous flutter nearly entirely out of his voice. He took another gulp of water. “Obviously.”

“Well...it’s not obvious to me.”

“Because you’re not looking. He’s...” He could see the man’s icy stare, feel his hot hands on his shoulders, and hear his disapproving _tisks_. “They were all found short distances from abandoned structures. Away for days. He’s clever. Rarely picks those who will be missed and when he does there’s a reason to...to discredit them. Delinquents, addicts...”

“It’s mighty convenient that they all forgot to mention a kidnapping.”

“They didn’t forget.” _They’ll never forget._ “No one believes a junky. He...he owns them.”

“How?”

Sherlock bit his lip. The memory of the man’s weight on top of him squeezed at his lungs. He could feel the man’s thumb trailing up his throat, pressing exactly too hard, the pain when man’s boots found him and the chilling whispers, toying and ripping at his mind.

“I don’t know.”

“Sherlock...” Lestrade’s voice was soft. He was afraid the cop would push further, dig at the question, but he didn’t. “Okay, then why?”

 

The kid seemed relieved by the new question. Lestrade wished he had another drink. He needed to hear the answer, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want to. He asked again.  

“If this is what happened, you gotta give me a motive. There’s no ransom, no requests... You say he’s clever. Why would someone take these kids only to let them go and hope no one talks?”

There was no hesitation, as if the boy had answered the question a million times before. “Because he needs them. He’s collecting them. They’re assets. Pieces on a chessboard.”

“For what?”

“I...I don’t know. But this one,” Sherlock pushed a paper towards Lestrade, “Her father is a high ranking military officer.”

Greg shook his head. “That’s not in her file. How can you possibly know that?”

“His signature. See? He started to write his rank and number. Habit. Signed over it to cover the traces but it’s still there. Handwriting is precise. Language to the point. T’s crossed and I’s dotted. Trained and rigid, even in stressful situations. And this one.” He flipped to another page. “His mother is stepping into politics. I recognize the name from the papers. Headed north last week. She’s no one as of yet but could be a contender. I’m sure there’s something hiding behind the others too, I just haven’t had time to—”

“I’d say that’s pretty good for being on the case for the better part of a morning.” Lestrade had hoped to see a smile at the complement. No such luck. “So, who is he?”

“A business man.”

_Our business transaction._

“Strong. Tall. Foreign.” It wasn’t lost on Lestrade how specific the answers were becoming. “Someone with knowledge of the city. Ambitious. Doubtful London is the only place he’s done this, but he’ll be staying somewhere close.”

“Why do you think he’s still here?”

A chill ran through Sherlock’s body. Why indeed? It was the first legitimate question Lestrade had asked, although the good detective clearly didn’t realize it. Why would he come back now? Why risk it? Was he planning something? Did he need something?

_...I thought I would check on you..._

Sherlock paled, a response that would work to his advantage. He’d go to them. Somehow, the man would go to them, just like he had done to Sherlock. Remind them of what they are. Remind them of the deal they’d made. The politician's son has moved away but the others must be close. The girl... Maybe this was Sherlock’s chance. To get answers. To make everything go away. He had to try.

 Sherlock moaned as he doubled over, gripping his stomach and twisting his face. He could hear Lestrade shift in his seat and stand. He groaned again.

“You okay kid?” _Like clockwork._

Sherlock nodded. _Don’t be obvious._

He tried to reach for the water glass but recoiled in another fit. He wheezed, pulling his legs to his chest. He’d had fits before. The drugs, withdrawal, he knew exactly what to do—exaggerate his general discomfort. Lestrade fell for it immediately.

“I’ll find you some Aspirin.”

When Lestrade heard the door slam, he knew he’d been had. Papers were gone. So was Sherlock. Shaking his head, he poured another drink, pulled out Sherlock’s file and added a new page. On it, he had written three words.

Taken

Abused

Manipulated

He hoped to god that he was wrong. When Maria Donovan drove up to the flat, she found Greg puffing a cigarette on the front stoop.

“Where is he?”

Greg held up an empty file. A girl’s name was written across the top. “My best guess is that he’s going to visit Harriet Watson.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short continuation...apparently to go along with the release of that promo picture!

Students shuffled past with their arms cradling books and their eyes heavy from study, too focussed on their own research to notice the younger boy by sitting in the back of the university library. Sherlock had counted on that. He had pulled tome after tome from the shelves and surrounded himself with notes and papers. It was easy to blend in. Finding Harriet Watson proved slightly more of a challenge.

The first step was easy. The police records had included an address—a first year dormitory near campus. Of course, she would no longer be there. The reports were dated two years ago and no self-respecting third year would be caught dead in that building now. Logic would reason that her current residence would be somewhere near campus, one of the hundreds of cheap flats rented to students every year. In time, Sherlock knew he could track her to one, but it would take weeks, months. He didn’t have that. The gnawing in his stomach told him he needed to hear her story now.

Instead, he turned his attention to the university itself. With thousands of students walking the halls, he needed to narrow down his search. The offices thwarted his initial plan—simply asking for her schedule. Apparently handing over information on students to strangers was frowned upon.

It was an annoyance but by no means the end. He already had enough information to start digging. Harriet’s first year dorm was home to mostly humanities and social science students—Fine Arts, English Literature, Politics—so it reasoned that she studied one of the three. Sherlock immediately dismissed Fine Arts. Her army-bred father would find it too frivolous. A hobby maybe, but a career? Too unstable. He supposed it could be a bit of rebellion, choosing passion over structure, but the man in the reports wasn’t one to be ignored. If Harriet Watson was an artist, it wasn’t on her father’s coin. The dorm space would easily be afforded by a middle class household, but by a girl embarking on her own? There were more reasonable residences. So, it was one of the others, though neither led to a particularly stable career.

A second visit with the offices granted him both third year timetables and a curious look from a secretary. He highlighted the compulsory classes for each. A girl with Harriet’s upbringing would either adhere to her father’s rigid instruction—early to bed early to rise—or rebel. Sherlock scratched off the morning classes. A humanities student’s silent revolt, and if she had been through what he believed...well, mornings were difficult. As it happened, one of the classes from each program ran that afternoon, and both let out into the courtyard in front of the library. This was his best chance. Still, if he’d miscalculated, misjudged, or Harriet had simply changed her area of study or dropped out entirely, the day would be a waste. Sherlock’s heart pounded at the thought. _No_ , he thought to himself. _It would have been a deduction and he would be back again tomorrow._ For now, he would have to wait.

As the clock ticked on, Sherlock pulled down book after book, trying to rid himself of another mystery, until he felt that familiar itch, the nagging need, creep back through him. He shivered. But he was close. It would be okay. He would be okay.

_Are you really that gullible?_

He rubbed his eyes. He _was_ blind. For all the words he gave to Lestrade, he still couldn’t see the full picture. The bespectacled man’s pseudonym. It was too specific not to be a clue. He’d chosen it carefully and made sure Sherlock knew it was a lie. Why would he do that? What was the meaning?  He’d flipped through a dozen catalogues before he found the name. _Valdemar Poulsen_ , a Danish born engineer, developer of magnetic recording. An odd name to choose, but perfectly cryptic.  The name represented everything.

_Like him, I collect information._

That’s what they were to him. Information. Walking, talking recordings he could play back any time he needed. Sherlock wrote down all he could find about Poulsen but nothing else seemed as important as what he already knew. _Like Poulsen, I collect information_. The name was the cruel taunting of a powerful man. A man who owned him.

_Clever, Sherlock. Too clever._

Sherlock slammed his books closed and glanced again at the clock. Classes would be ending soon. He shoved his notes into his bag, grabbed the old photograph of Harriet Watson, and headed into the courtyard, leaving the library staff to clean up his mess.  Students began to flood the paths as Sherlock found a good line of sight. He knew her face. He’d studied the picture. Now all he had to do was find her. He took a breath before his eyes began to dart across the sea of people.

_Too Short._

_Too tall._

_Too dark._

_Too thin._

_Yes..._

Sherlock checked the photograph once more before stuffing it into his pocket. It was Harriet. She clutched a water bottle in her hand as she chatted with a friend. He followed behind, quickly and quietly, as they made their way through the crowd. When they took a seat on a bench he stopped too, keeping his distance and hiding by a stone wall, but he continuing to study her. She was dressed casually—a loose fitting sweater and a pair of old jeans. Her hair was shorter than in the photograph and curled around her face. Her friend rummaged through her pack and Harriet snuck a sip from the bottle when she thought no one was looking. Her face screwed up as the liquid touched her tongue and her cheeks flushes as she swallowed. Water didn’t do that. This was her vice. This was his control.

He looked down, running what he would say over and over in his mind. He was rarely at a loss for words but these needed to be perfect, precise. He needed her to trust him, tell him the truth. As he looked up, his heart fell. She was gone. There was no one on the bench. No one on the path. Where could she have gone? How could he have been so stupid to—

“Ugh.” A small sound escaped his mouth as his back hit the wall. Strong arms pushed against his chest and held him still. Angry eyes glared at him.

“Why are you following me?” Her lip curled.

He had found Harriet Watson.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really short update-I swear I'm still here. As always, thanks for reading. You guys make my life!

“Why the hell are you following me?” she asked again.

This time her forearm pressed against his throat. She was shorter than he was but height didn’t account for strength. The way she clenched her fist told him she knew how to fight. The faded scar under her eye told him she could take a punch. She was strong, strong and willing to fight. Not unexpected for an army brat, though slightly inconvenient. He’d played her predicted responses, each scenario, repeatedly in his head, and only three he could imagine had resulted in harm to his person. Even so, he knew her better now. He wondered how many hits she had landed on the man with the glasses. He grinned at the thought. Harriet wasn’t amused.

“You having a laugh, eh? Think this is funny?” As she jostled him, the photograph fell from his pocket. He could see Harriet’s anger bubbling under the surface but she made no motion to pick it up. She sneered. “This how you get off, kid? Stalkin’ people? Who the fuck are you?”

“Valdemar Poulsen.” He waited, studying her, searching for a response and an acknowledgement. None came.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

She wasn’t lying. There was no hint of recognition. Nothing changed about her stance or her breathing. She didn’t know the name at all. Sherlock swallowed. Then that had been a game just for him. Why would that be? Why would he take the time to taunt him, mock him, and only him? Sherlock’s mind churned, playing the information again and again. Was he wrong? Was this girl really just a runaway with drinking habit? Had he forced the clues together? Was Lestrade right? Was all of this in his head?

_I own you._

_This is a business transaction._

_No one will believe you._

 “Well?”

He looked at Harriet, realizing how long it had been since he’d spoken. She was getting impatient now. Her fingers gripped his collar. The anger on her face had merged with annoyance. Sherlock shook his head.

“Then get the hell out of here, right now, or I’m calling the cops.” She shook him. “You got me?” She pushed him against the wall once more for emphasis and released him. Sherlock thought it peculiar that she would walk away. She was cautious and not one to underestimate a threat. She must have noticed his hands trembling or the sweat that dotted his temples. He looked weak. He felt weak. Still, he needed to know. As she turned to walk away, Sherlock found his voice.

“This...” he cleared his throat, “This is our business transaction.”

Harriet froze.

He anticipated retaliation—a punch, a kick. Violence. It never came—only the clenching and unclenching of her fists and the nervous tap of her foot. When she turned back to him, the color had drained from her face. It wasn’t anger, it was fear.

“What did you say?”

“You’ve heard those words before. Haven’t you Harriet? Harriet Watson.”

Sherlock took a step forward. Harriet took a step back. Relief washed over him. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t mad. This proved it. This girl knew. Harriet Watson knew.

“Get away from me.”

“You didn’t say a word about it. Let them all think you were just acting out.” The words were coming more quickly now. She tried to protest but he didn’t let her. He couldn’t stop, not when he was so close. “You hid it from them. Tried to forget it but you couldn’t. Maybe you tried, but you lied. Just like he said you would. Just like he wanted.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“I know your father is in the army. Hard man. Not all that understanding. Wished you were a boy. Now wishes you weren’t...so much like a boy. You’re interested in the girl you were with. Afraid to ask. Don’t be. She’s been watching you from the other side of the square since you pinned me to the wall.”

Harriet couldn’t help but look over her shoulder for confirmation. Sherlock continued.

“The red in your eyes says you don’t sleep well and when you’re nervous you take a sip from your water bottle. It isn’t water. Never been a fan of vodka but everyone has their vices.” He took a breath. “And I know he has something on you and there’s something he wants.” Harriet was stone still.

“Did...did he send you?”

“No.”

“Then why are you doing this? What do you want me to say?”

“That I wasn’t...” The words stuck in this throat. “That I wasn’t the only one.”

****

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donovan comes to see Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY! It has been way too long since I've updated and I can't believe people are still reading this. Thank you to everyone who has stuck around. This is just a short update to prove I am in fact still writing this. You are all wonderful.

Donovan stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the wall.  Greg could feel the anger and frustration radiating from like her like waves. He had offered her a cigarette but she’d refused. Then, he told her everything—about the night he found him, about the drugs, and about how close the boy had come to ending it. She listened without saying a word. She had every right to be angry and Greg had every right to be fired.

Greg rubbed the back of his neck and flicked his cigarette butt to the ground.

“Why this one?” Her tone was hard and even. It was the same voice she used in interrogation.

“Like you said. The kid got under my skin.”

“I mean Harriet Watson. Why would the kid go after her?”

“Just a hunch, I guess.”

“You gotta do better than that, Greg.”

He ran his hands through his hair and took a breath. “Don’t know, rightly. We know the most about her, maybe? At least Sherlock thinks he does. In the kid’s way of thinking, I bet he’s got enough to find her. She’s the closest. The university is easy enough to get to. Her last address was on a tube line. Either way he can get to her without much money.” Greg grimaced as his hand moved to his pocket. He shouldn’t have been surprised that his wallet was gone.

Donovan nodded. “Is he a danger to her?”

“He’s more likely to hurt himself than the Watson girl.”

“You’re sure.”

“Course I’m not sure, but Sherlock...he’s a messed up kid, but I think he wants answers more than anything else. I think he thinks the Watson girl can give him some.”

“Because he thinks these cases he took from my office are linked.”

“That’s the short of it.”

“And the long?”

Greg paused. He wasn’t sure if he should say it, or even if he was right. “I think he’s trying to find others who’ve been through the same thing he has. He says they were kidnappings. Says they were taken.”

“And you think he went through something similar.”

“His file reads like the rest. Even if this whole connection business is bullocks, there’s something going on here. I think the kid is seeing himself in these others.”

She sighed. “I told you not to get attached, Greg. I told you to let it go and here I am only hours later...” She shook her head. “I should have stopped you as soon as the two of you walked into the station.”

“Maria...”

“That’s on me. If anything happens to the Watson girl, that’s on us.”

Greg swallowed. “And if I had sent Sherlock packing, whatever happened to him would have been on me.”

“You really think there’s something here?”

“I do. I don’t have proof, but I do.”

Donovan dropped her arms to the side. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah. I’ll give some excuse why the files are missing. Faulty paperwork is less likely to get us both fired. A week, Greg. Doubt you’ll take your vacation anyway so I’m giving you a week to figure this out. Find Sherlock, find Hariet Watson, and make damn certain nothing happens to these kids.”

“I will.”

 “And if you find anything, and I mean anything, you will report to me. No secrets. No surprises. I like you, Lestrade. I know you think you’re doing what’s right, but there’s only so much I can protect you from before we both lose our heads.”

She stood and plucked a cigarette from his pack as she walked towards her car.

Greg stood too. “Thank you, Donovan.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I feel like I’ve just given you enough rope to hang yourself.”

Deep in his gut, Greg knew she was probably right.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...guys, I am so sorry this took so long...

She watched him pace across the concrete slab. His head was tilted to the sky. He always walked like that—straight and strong—defiant. His hands were crunched into fists and his shoulders were stiff. Every stride had the power and precision of a soldier—the way his arms swayed, the rhythm of his feet hitting the pavement. He had changed so much since the last time she had seen him. From a distance, he reminded her of their father.

                “John, isn’t it?”

She heard his voice before she saw him. It seemed to ooze out of nowhere and sent a chill down her spine. All she could do was nod as his wet hands found her waist. She could feel his breath on her neck.

                “I’m proud of you Harriet. What a good girl.”

She nearly gagged as he pressed himself closer. His fingers slid under the fabric of her shirt and his stiff cock brushed against her back through the confines of his trousers. Harriet wanted to run but she knew she couldn’t. There was nowhere that he wouldn’t find her. Nowhere that she would be safe. Instead, she stood frozen like a statue. This was their business transaction and John was the currency. She prayed that her brother would never find out.

                “Such a soldier.” The man continued, holding Harriet steady. “Looks a little like daddy from a distance, don’t you think?”

She swallowed hard as he moved his hand over the curve of her breast.

                “I wonder, will he be just as angry?” She closed her eyes as his damp fingers toyed with her nipple. “Poor, pitiful, rebellious Harriet.  Wasting everyone’s precious time.”

                She trembled as his tongue trailed up the length of her neck.

                “Unreliable. Dramatic. Such a deviant. A spot on the family.” She could almost feel his smile against her skin. “But not John. Oh no...John did what he was told. What was expected. And now here he is, waiting in the cold for a sister who will never show. What a good brother.”

                She could see John checking his watch and the lines that creased his brow. He would be furious with her after this. A final straw. One last reminder that she wasn’t worth the time.

                “You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

                He laughed.

                “Now what would give you that idea?” His hand clamped around her neck, just under the bone of her jaw. “No Harriett, I won’t hurt poor John. That would be bad business, now wouldn’t it?” She whimpered as he forced her gaze to the alley. He liked that sound and Harriett hated giving him the satisfaction. The man pressed his cheek to hers. “Do you see him?”

Tears welled in her eyes but she could see him. He was young, with curly black hair, tall and thin. He kept checking his watch as if waiting to meet someone. She tried to nod but his hand kept her still.

“What...what are you going to do to him?” He didn’t say a word, only tighten his grip.

Harriett wanted to call out to him, warn him, but the words stuck in her throat. Memories of what happened if she disobeyed sent tears dripping down her face. Instead, she watched the young man move from the alley and back to the street. She saw his eyes light up when he saw John pacing on the concrete and stayed silent as he fixed his hair and straightened his jacket.

A meet up. She had set John up on a meet up. A sad, broken part of her wanted to laugh.

“This is our business transaction, Miss Watson.”

The words made her stomach drop. She could see the car slowing down in front of him. The click of the car door. The stomping for boots. It was happening all over again, but this time not to her. He was oblivious to what was about to happen. About how his life was about to change. And now it was her fault. Oh god, it was here fault.

She heard the scream escape her lips before she felt his knee dig into her back and push her to the ground. The boy registered the noise. She could see his eyes flick about, trying to find the cause, but it was too late. They grabbed him easily, hit him, threw him to the ground, and pushed him into the car. When the car drove away, Harriett could make out a small trail of blood. She was shaking.

John saw none of it.

*****

She took a sip from her water bottle as he began to pace. It wore the same face, had the same scared eyes she had seen in the mirror since the moment she met that man. The same scared eyes she had seen that day in the alley. She had done that to him.

“Did...did he send you?”

It was only fitting.

 “No.”

Was this her punishment? Did he know that she had bartered her life for his?  
“Then why are you doing this? What do you want me to say?”

She watched him pause.

His voice was hoarse, as if the words didn’t want to come.

 

“That I wasn’t...That I wasn’t the only one.”

 

Harriett studied him. His hand shook as hers did. He was too thin and too pale. Bravado masked something scared and broken. His eyes were red like hers. An addict.

She wanted to run and forget and wipe all those images away, but there was a pleading in his eyes that she couldn’t ignore.

She had done this to him.

“You’re not the only one.”

She could see a weight lift from him. Relief. She thought about John, and her father, and the man in the glasses and shook her head. It was all too much. She sighed and sat against the wall. He may have been relieved but the weight fell back heavy onto Harriett. She took another swig of her bottle and hugged her knees.

 

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.


End file.
